LEPERS 

Tl  TP  T   T 


'sicks  Sparray 


THE    LEPER'S    BELL 


OF  CALIF.  LIBKAKY,  LOS  AXGELBS 


THE 

LEPER'S   BELL 

by 

MASSICKS   SPARROY 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 

Knickerbocker  press 

1921 


Copyright,  1921 

by 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Stack 
Annex 


SBL 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF 
MADAME  JACQUES  DU  QUESNOY 

(Told  by  Jacqueline  Lolif) 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — AT  THE  LAST  GASP 3 

II. — THE  RUINED  TOWER 15 

III. — THE  LEPER'S  BELL 40 

IV. — SILENCE! 46 

V. — FATE  THE  SURGEON 60 

PART  II 

THE  CROSS-SCENTS 
(Told  by  Andre,  Comte  dn  Quesnoy) 

I. — THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP      ....       77 

II. — CLUTCHING  FINGERS 95 

III. — QUINTILIAN'S   HEXAMETER  .         .         .118 

IV. — JACQUES    CALLS    ON    THE    PROCURATOR    OF 

THE  REPUBLIC 131 

V. — THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS  140 


2132982 


vi  CONTENTS 

PART  III 

THE  SPELL-SPINNERS 
(Told  by  Jean  of  the  Bellows) 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  VACANT  CHAIR 171 

II. — THE  OPENING  DOOR 201 

PART  IV 

THE  HOMECOMING  OF  THE  "FRIVOLE" 
(Told  by  Jean  of  the  Bellows) 

I. — AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE         .        .        .  245 

II. — MAN  PROPOSES 263 

III. — THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE     ....  279 

IV. — A  VEILED  CONFIDENCE         ....  295 

V.— THE  REAPER 303 

VI. — CAUGHT  BETWEEN  THE  CHIMES  .        .  306 

VII. — THE  DEATH-BOAT  .  316 


PART  I 

THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF 
MADAME  JACQUES  DU  QUESNOY 

(Told  by  Jacqueline  Lolif) 


THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

CHAPTER  I 

AT   THE   LAST   GASP 
1 

How  forget  it,  that  snowy  winter's  night,  when  I 
started  up  in  terror  from  my  sleep,  listening,  as 
away  out  in  the  wilds  I  heard  a  voice  shouting  with 
the  full  strength  of  powerful  lungs. 

The  sound  came  nearer  and  increased  in  volume. 
There  was  madness  in  the  outcry,  speaking  of 
emotions  long  since  past  human  control. 

I  crept  out  of  bed,  my  breath  coming  in  gasps 
of  fear.  .  .  .  Fear  of  what  ?  I  could  not  say,  yet 
it  was  so  irresistible  that  it  dragged  me  to  the 
window. 

Cautiously,  I  drew  aside  the  curtains.  Before 
me  a  rough  track  leading  to  the  greves,  with  the 
snow  lying  in  dazzling  whiteness  in  the  fitful  moon 
light;  a  cart,  drawn  by  an  old  white  horse,  and 
in  the  cart,  with  its  legs  turned  upwards,  a  dead 
cow,  white  as  the  linen  sheet  folded  down  the  mid 
dle  of  its  body.  And  with  the  jolting  of  the  cart 
its  white  ears  flapped,  limp.  How  dead  it  \vas! 
.  .  .  And  on  the  slippery  road,  the  old  white  horse 

3 


4  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

would  stumble,  whereupon  the  man,  who  stood  up 
right  in  the  cart  driving,  would  slash  savagely,  tug 
ging  at  the  reins  and  shouting  continuously. 

And  now  I  caught  the  words : — 

"A  bout!  .  .  .  A  bout!"  .  .  . 

I  could  imagine  the  wilderness  in  his  eyes  .  .  . 
picture  his  mouth  wide  open  to  let  this  cry  of  human 
extremity  escape.  .  .  . 

I  shuddered  and  shrank  behind  the  curtains  lest 
he  should  notice  me.  A  terror  gripped  me  for 
which  I  could  find  no  name. 

The  man  was  Jacques  du  Quesnoy. 

But  where  was  he  taking  the  dead  cow  at  this 
time  of  the  night  and  in  such  a  tempest?  How 
explain  his  behaviour  .  .  .  unless,  indeed,  he  were 
mad? 

Like  some  phantom  horror  in  a  nightmare,  cart 
and  driver,  horse  and  cow,  passed — and  disap 
peared.  The  shouts  grew  fainter :  now  they  were 
silent,  now  came  carried  on  a  gust  of  wind ;  then  at 
last  a  silence  as  of  death.  .  .  . 

On  tiptoe,  I  reached  my  bed  and  drew  the  clothes 
about  me.  But  sleep  I  could  not. 

A  long,  long  while  it  seemed;  and  then,  at  full 
gallop,  the  horse  came  back,  eased  of  its  burden, 
to  judge  from  the  lighter  rattle  of  the  wheels  be 
hind  it. 

Involuntarily,  I  thought  of  a  hearse  returning 
empty  from  the  churchyard.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  vain  I  told  myself  that  I  had  witnessed 
no  great  tragedy;  some  voice  within  me  whispered 
that  I  had. 

Wide-eyed,  I  waited  for  the  dawn,  and  no  sooner 


AT  THE  LAST  GASP  5 

was  it  come  than  I  dressed  myself  and  went  out 
of  doors. 

What  impulse  it  was  that  drove  me,  I  cannot 
say,  but  it  was  stronger  than  all  the  reasoning  I 
could  bring  to  bear  upon  it. 

The  snow  lay  thick  on  the  ground,  and  I  searched 
without  result  for  traces  of  the  cart  wheels. 

Disappointed,  I  knew  not  why,  I  returned  to  the 
house,  and  had  made  coffee  when  my  mother 
entered  the  salle  basse. 

"Down  already,  Jacqueline !"  she  exclaimed  in 
surprise.  "This  is  most  unusual." 

"A  most  unusual  thing  happened  last  night,"  I 
burst  out.  "Did  you  not  hear  a  man  shouting  at 
the  top  of  his  voice?" 

"I  cannot  say  I  did,"  she  answered,  amused. 
"But  if  I  had  I  do  not  think  it  would  have  worried 
me.  Men  often  shout  at  night,  dear.  In  all 
probability  he  was  drunk." 

"No,  mother,  he  was  mad.  He  drove  past  cry 
ing,  'A  bout!  .  .  .  A  bout!'  .  .  .  And  in  the  cart 
was  a  white  cow,  dead.  The  man  was  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy."  I  trembled  again  as  I  thought  of 
the  picture. 

My  mother  stared  at  me  in  amazement. 

"You  were  dreaming,  child;  Jacques  du  Quesnoy 
is  no  more  mad  than  I  am.  And,  another  thing,  I 
am  quite  certain  that  his  wife,  to  say  nothing  of 
his  brother  Andre,  would  never  allow  him  to  drive 
a  dead  cow  about  on  a  stormy  winter's  night." 

"I  saw  him  none  the  less,"  I  insisted. 

"In  a  nightmare,  my  poor  child.  Come,  draw 
close  to  the  fire;  you  look  quite  ill." 


6  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders  impatiently.  To  tell 
the  truth,  when  I  heard  my  mother  talk  thus  calm 
ly,  the  scene  I  described  certainly  did  seem  to  be 
more  a  bad  dream  than  a  reality. 

"Anyhow,"  I  persisted,  "I  will  ask  Auguste  to 
make  inquiries." 

My  mother  smiled  indulgently. 

"Yes,  do,  dear,"  was  all  she  said. 

As  for  me,  I  sat  all  morning  long  cowering  over 
the  fire,  unable  to  shake  off  my  depression. 

It  would  be  about  one  o'clock  when  Auguste,  our 
farm  man,  burst  into  the  salle  basse. 

"Madame,"  he  cried,  "the  young  Madame  Jac 
ques  du  Quesnoy  is  missing !  She  disappeared  last 
night,  and  there  is  not  a  trace  of  her  to  be  found." 

The  cart  with  the  dead,  white  cow  flashed  up 
before  my  eyes.  Why,  at  such  a  moment? 

My  mother  did  not  say  much,  but  I  saw  her 
exchange  quick  glances  wiith  our  old  bonne  Anne, 
who  had  been  with  us  ever  since  I  could  remember. 
I  knew  well  what  these  looks  implied;  Jeannette 
du  Quesnoy  had  fled  with  Jean  of  the  Bellows.  My 
heart  turned  to  ice. 

One  of  my  earliest  recollections  was  of  the  day 
I  first  met  the  fascinating  Jean,  sitting  astride  a 
high  branch  of  a  cherry  tree  in  his  adopted 
mother's  orchard.  When  he  saw  me  it  was  to  call 
out:  "Are  you  as  fond  of  cherries  as  I  am?"  And 
before  I  could  reply  he  fell  to  pelting  me  with  the 
fruit,  which  I  ate  as  fast  as  he  could  throw.  From 
that  day  we  became  fast  friends,  and  he  would  help 
me  round  up  the  sheep  on  the  salted  meadows,  and 
teach  me  how  to  groom  and  harness  the  horses. 


AT  THE  LAST  GASP  7 

After  he  went  to  the  White  Abbey  School  at 
Mortain  we  scarcely  ever  met,  but  his  little  tomboy 
comrade  never  forgot  him,  as  he  forgot  me  on  his 
return  from  his  military  training.  .  .  .  And  now 
he  is  said  to  have  run  away  with  Jeannette — 
shameful  rumour!  Yes;  but  is  it  improbable? 
Is  not  his  infatuation  the  common  talk  here 
abouts?  .  .  . 

With  Jean  of  the  Bellows,  to  feel  was  to  make 
known;  and  if  his  lips  did  not  betray  him,  then  his 
eyes  were  always  sure  to  do  so. 

But  if  Jeannette  du  Quesnoy  had  fled  in  the 
night,  how  was  it  possible  that  her  husband  Jacques 
could  have  been  driving  a  dead  cow  in  a  cart? 
Would  he  not  have  been  scouring  the  country  for 
his  wife? 

This  thought  must  have  passed  through  my 
mother's  mind,  for  she  looked  at  me,  saying:— 

"You  see,  dear,  it  could  not  have  been  Jacques 
you  saw  with  the  cart  last  night." 

"And  why  not?"  I  exclaimed.  "Jeannette  took 
advantage  of  his  absence  to  make  good  her  escape." 

Then  my  mother  turned  to  Anne  and  Auguste 
and  described  the  scene  I  had  witnessed. 

"Dame!"  ejaculated  the  latter,  "it  would  be 
enough  to  make  any  wife  run  away,  I  should 
think."  At  which  there  was  a  general  smile. 

I  felt  myself  to  be  the  object  of  amusement,  and, 
in  angry  silence,  rose  and  left  the  salle  basse. 

Outside,  the  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
A  dark,  dreary  day  it  had  been,  with  fitful  gusts  of 
wind  that  whistled  round  the  house,  and  added  to 
my  depression.  I  decided  to  try  the  effect  of  a 


8  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

walk,  in  spite  of  the  uninviting  weather.  I  would 
see  how  the  greves  were  looking  all  white  with 
snow.  Perhaps  there  lurked  also  a  secret  hope 
that  I  might  find  some  proof  of  the  cart's  having 
passed  with  its  dead  cow.  The  amusement  my 
story  had  aroused  annoyed  me.  The  more  be 
cause,  even  in  broad  daylight,  I  could  not  shake  off 
the  horror  which  the  night  had  cast  upon  me. 

On  reaching  the  greves  I  ploughed  my  way  in  the 
direction  of  the  leper-house,  a  lonely  ruin  standing, 
gaunt  and  stark,  on  the  edge  of  the  pres-sales, 
which  lose  themselves  in  the  wilderness  of  sea-sand. 
It  was  a  spot  I  loved,  despite  its  reputation  of  being 
haunted  by  the  Leper  of  the  Cross,  whose  bell 
would  clang  warningly  across  the  greves  at  dead  of 
night,  heralding  tribulation  and  tragic  happenings. 

For  myself,  I  did  not  know  whether  I  believed 
the  story  or  not.  The  place,  with  its  ivy-covered 
walls,  its  ruined  tower,  and  great  round  bakehouse, 
appealed  to  me  by  reason  of  its  picturesqueness, 
and  also  because  there  I  could  always  be  alone. 

Deep  in  my  thoughts,  I  was  startled  by  the  sud 
den  onrush  of  a  sheep-dog,  that  tore  past  and  van 
ished  in  a  whirl  of  snow.  It  belonged  to  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy.  Where  was  it  going  ?  I  turned  my 
head  in  swift  fear  of  seeing  its  master,  and  there 
and  then  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  I  should 
always  experience  this  strange  'dread  of  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy :  doubly  strange,  because  hitherto  I  had 
always  looked  upon  him  as  some  kindly  giant.  But 
no,  there  was  no  one  in  sight,  and  a  feeling  of  un 
wonted  excitement  made  me  eager  to  follow  the 
dog.  Did  I,  even  then,  connect  its  haste  with  my 


AT  THE  LAST  GASP  9 

own  misgivings?  If  I  did,  it  was  subcon 
sciously.  .  .  . 

I  noticed  that,  beyond  the  footprints  of  the  flying 
dog,  the  snow  lay  untrodden,  and  therefore  con 
cluded  that  it  could  not  be  chasing  a  stray  sheep 
or  hunting  down  some  quarry.  Keenly  interested, 
I  hurried  on  as  fast  as  the  rough  ground  would 
allow.  But  it  proved  to  be  so  vain  a  pursuit  that 
I  was  on  the  point  of  turning  back  when  I  heard 
behind  me  the  heavy,  running  footsteps  of  a  man: 
now  I  could  hear  his  laboured  breathing — what 
desperate  haste  he  was  in!  ... 

"Jacques  du  Quesnoy!" 

The  name  flashed  through  my  brain  even  as  I 
heard  the  football.  So  certain  was  I  that  it  was  he, 
I  dared  not  turn  my  head.  The  mere  thought  of 
the  driver  in  the  cart  terrified  me.  To  meet  him 
on  these  desolate  greves  was  more  than  I  could 
stand.  Fear  quickened  my  pace  until  I  too  was 
nearly  running. 

The  snow-covered  sands  lay  before  me  ...  not 
a  soul  in  sight.  Every  instant  I  expected  to  hear 
the  wild  cry  that  had  alarmed  me  in  the  night  .  .  . 
a  bout!  ...  a  bout!  .  .  .  dead-beat!  .  .  .  dead- 
beat!  .  .  . 

If  I  could  but  reach  the  ruins  of  the  leper-house 
I  might  hide.  Shunned  by  every  one  else,  there 
was  not  a  nook  or  cranny  unknown  to  me.  But 
try  as  I  might,  the  footsteps  were  gaining  ...  a 
sudden  rush,  and  he  was  abreast  of  me.  Yes, 
my  heart's  frightened  beating  had  not  lied :  it  was 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy;  and,  as  his  eyes  met  mine,  I 
could  have  shrieked. 


10  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"You  are  in  haste,  mademoiselle." 

"As  you  seem  to  be,  monsieur,"  I  retorted.  But 
the  tremble  in  my  voice  betrayed  my  nervousness. 

"Yes,  I  am  in  a  great  hurry." 

"Then  do  not  let  me  detain  you,  monsieur." 

"On  the  contrary,  your  speed  began  to  equal 
mine.  The  day  is  darkening;  I  am  surprised  to 
find  you  on  the  greves  at  such  an  hour.  It's  a 
lonely  spot."  And  I  know  not  what  sinister  mean 
ing  he  did  not  succeed  in  breathing  into  the  words. 

I  bit  my  lips  to  steady  them.  I  am  no  coward, 
but  in  that  moment  I  was  beside  myself  with  terror. 

"I  did  not  sleep  well  last  night,"  I  stammered 
out;  "and  I  thought  a  walk  might  enable  me  to  sleep 
better  to-night." 

"Not  sleep? — Tiens!  Anything  disturb  you, 
perhaps?"  The  tones  of  his  voice  were  cruel  as 
the  look  he  bent  upon  me.  I  would  have  died 
rather  than  tell  him  the  truth. 

"Anything  disturb  me?  ...  Why,  no! — no! 
certainly  not!" 

My  words  seemed  to  arouse  his  suspicions,  and 
no  wonder:  a  child  must  have  read  into  them  a 
contradiction. 

"Is  such  extraordinary  vehemence  necessary, 
mademoiselle?"  And  he  leaned  so  close,  his  hot 
breath  fanned  my  cheek. 

"Was  I  vehement?" 

"Par  exemplel  so  much  so  that  you  stir  my 
curiosity.  .  .  .  Was  your  curiosity  stirred  last 
night,  perhaps?" 

"No,  monsieur,  no!" 

He  brushed  my  denial  aside. 


AT  THE  LAST  GASP  11 

"Indeed,  I  am  beginning  to  think  something  must 
have  disturbed  you,  mademoiselle — more :  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  you  even  slipped  out  of 
your  warm  bed  to  take  a  peep  through  the  window 
with  all  a  woman's  eternal  curiosity — hein?  .  .  . 
And  what  did  you  see?" 

There  was  a  roaring  in  my  ears  that  seemed  to 
drown  my  own  voice  as  I  said : — 

"You  are  putting  words  into  my  mouth,  mon 
sieur." 

"As  your  face  is  putting  thoughts  into  my  mind, 
mademoiselle." 

Driven  by  fear,  I  sought  to  turn  the  conversation, 
stumbling  over  the  words  in  my  haste  to  divert  his 
attention  into  another  channel. 

"If  you  are  looking  for  your  dog,  monsieur,  it 
passed  me  just  now.  It  was  so  evidently  on  the 
hunt  that  I  was  trying  to  follow  it  in  order  to  see 
what  its  quarVy  might  be." 

At  my  words,  he  stopped  with  such  abruptness 
and  with  so  fierce  a  movement,  that  a  cry  burst 
from  my  parched  lips.  His  face  was  blanched, 
distorted :  wrecked,  as  it  were,  by  some  tempest 
from  within. 

"Monsieur!  .  .  .  Monsieur!  You  frighten 
me!" 

He  laid  his  great  hands  on  my  arm. 

"Tell  me,  what  business  is  it  of  yours  to  track  my 
dog  and  find  its  quarry?" 

"Monsieur,  I  only  did  it  to  amuse  myself !" 

"Tiens!  ...  A  somewhat  strange  amusement. 
Come,  tell  me,  what  quarry  did  you  expect  to  find?" 
And  his  blazing  eyes  scorched  me. 


12  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

I  could  but  stare  back  at  him,  dumb. 

"You  see  things  at  night,  and  follow  other 
people's  dogs  the  next  morning.  .  .  .  Madem 
oiselle,  a  word  of  advice;  keep  that  woman's  cu 
riosity  of  yours  under  control."  His  words  rang 
with  a  deep  menace;  he  paused,  then  added:  "You 
have  aroused  my  interest  in  you." 

He  spoke  the  last  words  very  slowly,  as  though 
to  underline  them,  and  they  frightened  me  more 
than  all  that  had  gone  before.  And  why  did  his 
eyes  rest  so  continuously  on  my  throat?  I  put  up 
my  hand  to  feel  if  there  were  anything  wrong.  He 
smiled. 

"What  a  slender  throat,  mademoiselle.  Surely, 
with  one  of  my  hands  I  could  encircle  it — thus." 
And  he  illustrated  the  words.  I  shrank  back, 
panting.  And  thereupon  his  whole  manner 
changed — no,  his  eyes  remained  the  same,  fierce  as 
those  of  some  beast  of  prey. 

"Forgive  me,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  gently;  "I 
am  afraid  I  have  frightened  you.  But  you  have 
no  doubt  heard  of  my  trouble,  and  for  that  reason 
will  find  it  in  your  heart  to  pardon  me.  Indeed,  I 
hardly  know  what  I  am  doing;  the  least  thing 
upsets  me.  You  are  too  young,  of  course,  to 
realise;  but,  believe  me,  when  a  man  is  driven  as  I 
am,  the  last  thing  he  can  endure  is  prying  eyes." 

"Monsieur!"  I  protested;  when  he  stopped  me 
with  a  movement  of  his  powerful,  well-shaped 
hands.  It  was  as  though  he  strangled  something. 
Then  he  smiled  the  sudden,  winning  smile,  a  trick 
of  all  the  Quesnoys. 

"Now  I  must  ask  you  to  forgive,  me  again;  for 


AT  THE  LAST  GASP  13 

once  more  I  have  frightened  you.       Is  it  not  so?" 

"No — ah,  no,  monsieur  ..."     I  faltered. 

"Next  time  I  see  you,  mademoiselle,  I  will  ask 
you  what  madame,  your  mother,  thought  of  my 
unwarrantable  behaviour." 

His  wild,  blue  eyes  looked  into  mine,  and,  as  on 
a  brain-wave,  I  spoke  out  what  I  knew  it  was  his 
will  that  I  should  speak. 

"Monsieur,"  I  answered,  "this  meeting  rests  be 
tween  you  and  me.  I  will  mention  it  to  no  one." 

"You  honour  me,  mademoiselle,  and  I  thank 
you.  Au  revoir."  He  lifted  his  cap,  and  I  watched 
him  until  he  disappeared  round  the  bend  which 
sweeps  outwards  before  the  leper-house  comes  in 
view. 

I  tried  to  walk,  only  to  find  that  my  knees  gave 
way  beneath  me,  and  I  had  to  wait  until  I  could  re 
cover  strength. 

Suddenly,  from  round  the  bend,  there  burst  a 
yelp  of  pain,  short  and  sharp;  then  another  more 
prolonged,  and  yet  another,  until  the  whole  of  the 
greves  seemed  athrob  with  suffering. 

"Mon  Dieu!  he  is  killing  the  dog!"  And  I  put 
my  hands  over  my  ears  and  staggered  homewards 
at  a  run.  But  as  I  went,  I  told  myself  that  I  was 
a  coward  not  to  have  gone  to  the  poor  beast's 
rescue;  for  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  could  not  kill  me. 
.  .  .  Whereat  the  Terror  that  drove  me  panted: — 

"Could  he  not?"  . 


As  I  entered  the  salle  basse,  my  mother  uttered 
an  exclamation. 


14  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Child,  how  white  you  are !  Has  anything 
happened?" 

"Nothing,"  I  answered;  and  knelt  down  by  the 
fire  to  try  to  melt  the  icy  chill  within  me. 

"There  is  no  fresh  news  of  Jeannette  du 
Quesnoy,"  said  my  mother  presently.  "Andre  has 
been  here  to  make  inquiries,  but,  of  course,  I  could 
give  him  no  information.  They  are  an  unlucky 
family,  the  Quesnoy s." 

"Is  Monsieur  Jean  taking  no  part  in  the  search?" 
I  asked,  with  all  the  indifference  I  could  assume. 

My  mother  compressed  her  lips. 

"I  cannot  say,"  she  returned  briefly. 

"Perhaps  he  is  no  longer  at  Hawthorn  Ferry 
Farm,"  I  persisted.  Even  at  the  cost  of  betraying 
my  love  for  him,  I  felt  I  must  know  his  where 
abouts. 

"Perhaps  not,"  came  the  laconic  reply. 

I  felt  the  anger  begin  to  rise  within  me,  and 
threw  prudence  to  the  winds. 

"Is  he  still  at  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm,  mother?" 

And  my  mother,  who  could  not  evade  a  direct 
question,  answered  grudgingly : — 

"I  suppose  so,  though  I  really  do  not  know." 

At  which  I  felt  the  warm  blood  course  through 
my  veins  again.  With  Jean  of  the  Bellows  at 
hand,  how  could  I  be  afraid?  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   RUINED    TOWER 
1 

WHEN  I  awoke  the  next  morning,  it  was  to  find 
that  a  thaw  had  set  in  during  the  night,  and  that 
the  snow  was  melting  fast.  And  when,  a  little 
later,  the  sun  shone  out,  I  wondered  how  I  could 
have  allowed  myself  to  become  so  possessed  by  fear 
of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy.  I  felt  now  that  I  was 
abundantly  equal  to  an  encounter  with  him. 

"You  look  yourself  again,  Jacqueline,"  was  my 
mother's  greeting.  "I  was  quite  anxious  about 
you  yesterday.  Any  more  weird  nightmares,  my 
dear?" 

"None,  thank  you,"  I  answered,  and  was  able  to 
smile  myself. 

"Auguste  was  foolish  enough  to  hazard  an 
inquiry  after  the  health  of  the  cows  up  at  Hawthorn 
Ferry  Farm  when  Andre  du  Quesnoy  was  here 
yesterday " 

"Well?"  I  interrupted  eagerly. 

"Well,  he  received  one  of  those  long,  summing- 
up  stares  which  Andre  excels  in." 

"But  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  nothing  of  importance — it  is  not  often 
that  he  does  say  all  he  thinks — but  .  .  ." 

IS 


16  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"But  what?  Oh,  mother,  you  are  hiding  some 
thing  from  me;  I  know  you  are,  by  your  face. 
He  said  the  cow  was  dead." 

"My  dear  child,  don't  be  so  impetuous.  You 
allow  your  imagination  to  run  away  with  you. 
Andre  du  Quesnoy  resented  Auguste's  question  as 
an  impertinence :  like  me,  he  approves  of  people 
minding  their  own  business." 

I  gave  an  impatient  sigh ;  mother  exasperated  me 
sometimes.  She  was  so  placid,  nothing  seemed  to 
excite  her;  she  was  patient,  nothing  seemed  to  irri 
tate  her ;  whereas  I  was  easily  excited,  and,  alas !  all 
irritability. 

She  watched  me  now  with  her  indulgent  smile. 

"Try  to  realise  that  what  you  saw  the  other  night 
was  a  trick  of  your  imagination,  dear,"  she  said. 
"I  know  well  that  the  Quesnoys  are  a  queer-tem 
pered  family,  still,  there  are  limits;  and  that  poor 
Jacques  should  drive  through  a  snowstorm  at  mid 
night  to  bury  a  cow,  crying  as  he  went,  'a  bout'  — 
no,  my  child,  that  is  going  too  far." 

"It  is  going  as  far  as  the  truth  and  no  farther," 
I  answered  sullenly.  And  then  to  prevent  more 
contradiction,  I  asked:  "Has  anything  been  heard 
of  Jeannette  this  morning?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  nothing.  She  seems  to  have 
disappeared  completely."  A  slight  pause,  and  then 
my  mother  added:  "Auguste  tells  me  that  Jean  of 
the  Bellows  caught  the  express  to  Paris  this  morn 
ing;  but  where  he  is  going  to  from  there  Auguste 
could  not  say.  .  .  ." 

Was  it  intentionally  that  she  thus  coupled  the  two 
names  together?  I  was  up  in  arms  at  once. 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  17 

"You  surely  don't  think  that  Jean  has  followed 
Jeannette  du  Quesnoy!"  I  demanded. 

"I  don't  want  to  think  anything  about  it,  Jac 
queline."  Her  tone  implied  that  I  had  better  not 
either.  "And  gossip,  my  child,  sows  the  seed  of 
trouble.  Everywhere,"  she  finished,  with  a  sigh. 

From  the  fire,  where  old  Anne  was  making  our 
soup  a  la  graisse,  there  came  a  chuckle. 

"Of  course  he  has  gone  to  join  the  young 
madame!  Jean  of  the  Bellows  can  no  more  help 
fanning  a  flame  than  he  could  help  breathing — if 
he  wants  to  live — dame!  his  nickname  fits  him  to 
at." 

"Anne !"  sharply  admonished  my  mother. 

A  sense  of  shame  swept  over  me  for  the  secret 
love  in  my  heart.  The  memory  of  many  an  after 
noon  spent  on  the  greves  with  Jean  in  the  past, 
rose  up  to  make  the  present  the  more  bitter.  Jean 
of  the  Bellows,  he  had  indeed  proved  himself  to  be. 

I  caught  my  mother's  eyes  upon  me,  and,  with 
a  woman's  ever-swift  self-control  where  her  love  is 
concerned,  I  wiped  all  emotion  from  my  face. 

"If  you  would  like  me  to  walk  into  Littremont 
this  morning  and  do  the  shopping,  I  could  start  at 
once,"  I  said. 

"Then  you  had  better  go  by  the  road,"  she  re 
plied;  "the  greves  will  be  almost  impassable." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  best,"  I  agreed. 

None  the  less,  once  outside,  I  turned  down  to  the 
greves:  I  knew  which  road  I  preferred,  but  to 
argue  about  it  was  such  a  waste  of  time. 

On  the  greves  the  snow  melts  very  fast.  My 
mother  was  right,  they  were  almost  impassable. 


18  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

As  I  picked  my  way,  I  began  to  notice  the  marks  of 
cart-wheels :  I  would  lose  them  only  to  find  them 
again,  until  they  stopped  altogether  opposite  the 
ruins  of  the  leper-house,  at  a  spot  where  the  ground 
had  been  torn  up  by  some  animal,  and  where 
the  sea-soil  was  black  where  it  should  have  been 
gray. 

"The  white  cow  has  been  buried  here,"  I  involun 
tarily  exclaimed. 

And  then  in  a  wave  there  swept  over  me  the  same 
sensation  of  awe  and  fear  as  when  I  had  seen  the 
dead  cow  driven  past  our  farm. 

It  was  in  vain  I  reasoned  with  myself,  standing 
there  in  the  sunshine  that  was  bright  enough  to  have 
dispelled  even  such  gloom  as  mine. 

Full  of  this  inexplicable  disquietude,  I  walked 
slowly  towards  the  leper-house,  while  behind  me  a 
voice  seemed  to  cry  of  desertion.  .  .  . 

Through  doors  that  hung  creaking  on  rusty 
hinges;  along  passages  that  gave  out  ghostly 
echoes;  by  courtyards  that  had  seen  the  lepers 
grouped  together:  to  climb  at  last  the  crumbling 
staircase,  and,  pushing  open  a  battered  door  that 
swung  inwards,  find  myself  on  the  tower. 

It  was  there  that  I  had  dreamed  some  of  my  hap 
piest  dreams.  Even  to-day,  as  I  sat  down  on  the 
time-worn  bench  in  the  tower,  my  imagination  went 
off  in  a  muse  on  a  more  congenial  subject  than  my 
fear  of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy,  and,  as  usual,  fell  to 
weaving  stories  of  my  old  playmate  Jean.  Adopt 
ed  by  Madame  Charles  du  Quesnoy  when  he  was 
only  a  few  weeks  old,  he  had  been  christened  Jean 
Bienvenu,  and  a  welcome  son  to  his  foster-mother 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  19 

he  certainly  proved  himself  to  be,  as  he  grew  to 
boyhood.  Who  his  parents  were  no  one  knew,  for 
Madame  Charles  took  the  secret  with  her  when  she 
died.  His  unknown  birth,  however,  was  a  link 
between  us :  for  if  he  had  no  right  to  bear  the  name 
of  Quesnoy,  neither  had  I  a  legal  claim  to  my 
father's  name  of  Montviron.  It  had  always 
coupled  us  together,  in  my  thoughts  if  not  in  his, 
this  common  misfortune,  but  in  every  other  respect 
what  a  sore  point  my  own  birth  had  ever  proved  to 
be! 

"Your  own  fault,  my  child,"  my  mother  would 
say,  when  I  gave  voice  to  my  soreness.  "Your 
father  gave  you  his  name;  it  is  you  who  will  not 
bear  it,  nor  allow  me  to,  since  his  death." 

"Because  I  have  not  a  right  to  the  name,  nor 
have  you,"  I  would  retort :  and  then  would  hate  my 
self  the  next  instant  for  having  spoken. 

"Love  gave  us  the  right,  dear  Jacqueline,"  my 
mother  would  plead. 

"The  Church  does  not  recognise  such  a  right." 

"Yet  it  is  the  truest  of  all,"  she  persisted. 

"Mother,  you  were  never  married  to  my  father." 

"No,  dear." 

"But  that  is  an  offence  against 

"Society,  yes." 

"Oh,  you  are  repeating  what  my  father  used  to 
say.  But  since  he  would  not  marry  you,  I  will 
never  bear  his  name." 

"Would  not,  is  the  wrong  word  to  use.  He  did 
not  believe  in  marriage.  Too  often  he  had  seen 
the  mockery  of  it.  Ours,  he  said,  was  a  marriage 
made  in  the  sight  of  God.  Vows  we  took — that 


20  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

were  never  broken,  Jacqueline :  our  marriage  was 
sacred  in  our  eyes " 

"But  not  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  mother." 

"The  world  did  not  exist  for  your  father  and 
me " 

"And  for  your  child?  .  .  .  Did  you  ever  think 
of  her?" 

"France  recognises  you,  Jacqueline." 

"Tiens?  That  is  too  wide  a  recognition  to  satis 
fy  me,"  I  would  flash  out  sarcastically. 

And  thereupon  she  would  break  down  and  weep, 
whilst  I  would  be  torn  between  sorrow  and  anger. 
I  find  that  I  am  always  angry  and  sorry  at  the  same 
time.  I  don't  like  being  sorry,  so,  of  course,  I  get 
angry — que  voules-vous!  .  .  . 

I  can  still  remember  my  father :  a  man  tall  and 
straight,  with  stern  acquiline  features. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  would  say,  taking  me 
between  his  knees. 

"Jacqueline  Lolif,"  I  would  answer. 

For  it  was  by  this  name  old  Anne  would  call  me 
in  my  childhood;  and  she,  at  the  time,  being  every 
thing  to  me — as  my  father  was  everything  to  my 
mother — I  obeyed  her  teaching  implicitly. 

"Jacqueline  de  Montviron,"  he  would  correct,  his 
eyebrows  contracting. 

"Jacqueline  Lolif,"  I  would  repeat,  giving  him 
back  look  for  look. 

Whereupon  he  would  shrug  his  shoulders,  and 
say  with  a  laugh  : — 

"She  is  a  Montviron  all  over!" 

But  my  mother  would  wipe  the  tears  from  her 
eyes  surreptitiously. 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  21 

.  .  .  Why  will  women  so  often  hide  their  griefs? 
Is  it  always  wise  ?  .  .  . 

My  mother  bowed  to  my  father's  will.  But  did 
she  share  his  theories,  or  merely  accept  them, 
because  they  came  from  him  ?  .  .  .  She  would  have 
me  believe  the  former;  my  instinct  proclaims  the 
latter  to  be  the  truth.  But  she  was  of  a  yielding, 
gentle  temperament;  happiest  when  giving  all, 
asking  nothing  in  return,  except  love.  .  .  . 

And  love  my  father  gave  her,  love  I  gave  her. 
.  .  .  Love  the  very  angels  in  heaven  must  give 
her,  so  sweet  she  is.  ... 

With  a  sudden  movement  of  terror  I  awoke  out 
of  my  day-dream,  panting.  .  .  . 


Out  there  from  the  river  came  the  dip  of  oars, 
and,  with  strokes  swift  and  strong,  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy  shot  into  sight  round  the  bend  in  his  boat 
Frivole — le  bateau  de  malheur. 

It  was  the  work  of  an  instant  for  me  to  drop  to 
my  knees.  ...  I  feared  the  man,  dreaded  his  pur 
suit  as  that  of  some  malignant  fate. 

Through  one  of  the  loopholes  in  the  tower  I 
watched  his  approach.  He  anchored  his  boat  op 
posite  the  leper-house,  then  leaped  ashore. 

In  long,  swinging  strides,  he  crossed  the  sands 
until  he  came  to  the  place  where  I  had  paused.  And 
now  I  saw  that  he  carried  a  spade.  From  the 
safety  of  my  retreat  I  watched  him.  What  was  he 
going  to  do? 

At  first  he  stood  as  if  plunged  in  thought,  his  at- 


22  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

titude  one  of  utter  dejection ;  then,  suddenly,  he  bent 
down  and  began  to  examine  the  ground;  next,  with 
a  shout  that  rang  loud  in  the  clear  air,  he  had  sprung 
upright,  gazing  to  right  and  left.  .  .  . 

He  had  discovered  my  footprints. 

I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief  when  I  saw  him 
take  up  the  spade  and  begin  to  beat  down  the  earth. 
Something  told  me  that  it  was  his  own  dog  that  had 
been  scratching  there.  But  why  all  this  precaution 
to  obliterate  the  traces?  .  .  . 

When  the  earth  was  arranged  to  his  liking, 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy  shouldered  his  spade  and 
deliberately  took  up  the  trail  of  my  footsteps. 

Gasping,  I  crawled  on  hands  and  knees  towards 
the  door ;  fleet  of  foot  as  I  was,  I  might  yet  escape. 

One  glance,  however,  through  another  loophole, 
showed  me  how  impossible  it  would  be;  he  was  too 
near. 

So  with  beating  heart  I  waited,  assuring  myself 
that  he  would  never  trust  his  giant  frame  on  the 
crumbling  staircase. 

On  a  sudden  he  had  broken  into  a  run,  and  the 
next  moment  I  heard  the  rusty  hinges  of  the  outer 
door  grate.  And  then,  there  followed  a  silence.  .  .  . 

I  pressed  my  hands  over  my  heart,  lest  its  throb 
bing  should  betray  me.  My  very  breath  sounded 
too  loud,  and  I  held  it  so  long  that  it  finally  burst 
from  my  lips  in  a  sob.  .  .  .  Had  he  heard?  .  .  . 

A  footfall.  ...  I  strained  my  ears.  Yes,  I  had 
not  been  mistaken,  he  was  walking  through  the 
ruined  chambers.  I  heard  his  steps  ring  out  down 
the  stone  passages;  to  drop  into  silence  as  he 
traversed  some  grass-covered  way.  .  .  .  And  now, 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  23 

he  was  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  leading  to  the 
tower.  ...  I  dared  not  breathe.  ...  I  closed  my 
eyes  and  waited.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  his  voice  rose  on  an  oath : — 

"If  I  catch  her,  I  will  clasp— 

I  could  not  hear  the  rest;  the  blood  coursing 
through  my  veins  drowned  the  words  which  were 
spoken  low — low  as  a  whisper.  .  .  . 

And  then  I  found  myself  counting  his  footsteps 
as  they  resounded  on  the  stone  staircase.  .  .  . 
With  a  supreme  effort  of  will  I  dragged  myself  to 
the  battered  door  and  concealed  myself  behind  it.  I 
thanked  God  I  was  slender  as  a  sapling,  for  the  door 
could  nearly  touch  the  wall,  when  opened  wide, 
with  me  between  none  the  less.  .  .  . 

There  came  the  ever-recurring  crash  of  falling 
mortar;  then  a  savage  curse,  followed  by  silence. 

Should  I  escape  after  all  ?  ... 

But  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  was  not  easily  beaten : 
he  had  hesitated  only  to  come  on  again. 

Through  the  chinks  in  the  door  I  watched  until 
at  last  I  saw  his  head  emerge  from  out  the  darkness 
of  the  steep  staircase.  His  fierce  blue  eyes  seemed 
to  meet  and  hold  mine — fascinated.  An  eternity 
passed  while  I  looked  into  them.  And  were  ever 
eyes  so  full  of  ungovernable,  malignant  passion? 
.  .  .  Strange,  that  though  they  seemed  to  blaze 
straight  into  mine  he  should  give  no  sign.  .  .  .  My 
guardian  angel  must  indeed  have  been  very  near. 

With  fierce  outrush  of  breath  through  the 
quivering  nostrils  he  came  on,  and  pushed  the  door 
open :  so  wide  open  that  my  body  was  crushed 
against  the  wall.  But  1  gave  no  sound.  .  .  . 


24  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Again  that  interminable  silence;  to  be  broken  by 
another  outburst :  vague  threatenings,  incoherent 
as  the  soliloquy  of  a  man  distraught. 

"Yes,  nom  de  Dieu!  ...  As  I  would  ...  as 
..."  The  words  trailed  off  and  were  lost  as  be 
fore.  It  was  as  if  the  speaker  were  afraid  to  give 
full  utterance  to  the  evil  that  was  in  his  mind. 

Slowly  he  turned  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs. 
Stones  and  mortar  followed  his  descent.  How  I 
prayed  that  he  might  be  flung  with  them  into  the 
paved  way  below !  .  .  . 

I  cannot  say  how  long  it  was  that  I  waited  there, 
crushed  behind  the  door,  afraid  to  move;  afraid 
even  to  lean  forward  and  take  one  last  peep  to  see 
if  he  were  going  towards  his  boat.  .  .  . 

The  silence  remained  unbroken;  or  to  be  broken 
only  by  the  call  of  some  sea-bird.  .  .  . 

At  last  I  heard  the  dip  of  oars.  I  stole  out — no 
mouse  more  silent  in  its  movements  than  was  I. 

There  was  no  one  in  sight.  The  sun  shone  in 
my  eyes,  seeming  to  smile  at  my  fears.  Stealthily 
I  descended  the  stairs,  pausing  on  each  step  to  hold 
my  breath  and  listen.  But  the  leper-house  was 
deserted  save  for  myself;  deserted  also  the  greves; 
and — yes,  the  Frivole  was  gone. 

But  although  I  was  thus  reassured  I  felt  unequal 
to  continue  my  walk  into  Littremont;  so,  as  fast 
as  my  trembling  legs  would  carry  me,  I  hastened 
homewards.  I  would  tell  my  mother  everything; 
and  this  time  she  must  believe  me. 

Into  our  orchard  from  the  road,  there  leads  a 
narrow  path  over  which  the  crimson  ramblers  have 
climbed  and  met  until  they  have  formed  an  arbour. 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  25 

And  now  as  I  reached  this  place  I  hesitated  whether 
to  go  by  it  or  to  continue  on  up  the  road.  I  chose 
the  latter,  and  well  for  me  that  I  did;  for  in  the 
same  instant  there  leaped  from  the  covered  pathway 
— Jacques  du  Quesnoy.  .  .  . 

One  glance  at  his  face,  and  I  was  speeding  up  the 
road  with  the  fleetness  which  had  so  often  called 
forth  Jean's  admiration  as  I  chased  a  straying 
sheep  across  the  greves. 

I  burst  into  the  salle  basse  with  a  cry. 

"My  dear  child!"  ejaculated  my  mother. 

But  before  either  of  us  could  utter  another  syl 
lable  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door. 

"Entrez" 

And  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  entered. 

My  mother  hastened  to  meet  him  with  a  welcome 
on  her  lips  and  her  hand  outstretched.  After  he 
had  greeted  her  he  turned  to  me,  and,  as  I  felt  his 
great  hand  close  over  mine,  a  faintness  overcame 
me,  which  I  was  powerless  to  disguise. 

"I  am  afraid  I  startled  you,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  still  retaining  my  hand ;  and  the  winning  smile 
of  the  Quesnoys  was  on  his  lips  as  he  looked  into 
my  eyes. 

I  murmured  some  unintelligible  reply;  he  con 
tinued  to  my  mother : — 

"I  was  coming  by  way  of  your  orchard,  madame, 
when  I  chanced  to  see  mademoiselle  pass,  and 
hurried  out  to  overtake  her.  But  my  too  sudden 
emerging  from  your  arbour  sent  her  flying  up  the 
road  like  a  fawn." 

"Tiens!  She  is  not  usually  so  foolish.  That  will 
account  for  your  pallor,  dear,  when  you  came  in." 


26  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"I  am  extremely  sorry,"  he  said,  and  relinquished 
my  hand. 

Then,  on  my  mother's  invitation,  he  sat  down 
by  the  fire  and  began  to  talk.  The  way  in  which  he 
spoke  of  his  wife  completely  won  her  heart.  .  .  . 
Mine  he  turned  to  ice;  froze  the  words  I  had 
longed  to  pour  into  her  ears. 

It  could  not  have  been  more  than  five  minutes  he 
stayed;  yet  every  second  of  the  time  was  to  me  an 
hour,  ticked  out  by  the  laboured  throbbing  of  my 
heart. 

He  rose  to  go,  and  again  his  hand  closed  over 
mine.  .  .  .  Again  I  felt  it  round  my  throat.  My 
torture  found  expression  in  a  gasp,  quickly 
drowned  in  his: — 

"Au  revoir,  mademoiselle." 

"My  child,  you  are  ill,  "  exclaimed  my  mother, 
when  the  door  had  closed.  And  she  hastened  to 
fetch  me  some  of  her  white  cognac.  "It  will  do 
you  good,"  she  urged. 

I  lifted  my  eyes  from  her  anxious  face  to  see 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy  watching  us  through  the  win 
dow.  As  his  eyes  met  mine,  he  raised  his  giant 
hands  and  made  the  movement  I  had  come  to  dread ; 
then,  shaking  his  head,  he  pressed  his  fingers  warn- 
ingly  to  his  lips,  enjoining  silence. 

I  sank  to  a  chair  and  broke  into  a  fit  of  sob 
bing.  And  my  mother,  not  understanding,  mur 
mured  : — 

"Don't  fret,  my  darling,  he  is  not  worth  it." 

The  words  stung  me  into  self-control. 

"Fretting?"  I  ejaculated,  a  whole  world  of  scorn 
in  my  tone :  "  For  whom  should  I  fret?  I  am  only 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  27 

annoyed  because  I   found  myself  unequal  to  the 
walk  into  Littremont." 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  that,  Jacqueline,"  re 
turned  my  mother  soothingly;  "I  can  send 
Auguste."  .  .  . 

It  would  be  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  postman  brought  me  a  letter  from  the 
Marquise  du  Quesnoy. 

"She  wants  me  to  go  and  stay  with  her  in  Brus 
sels,  mother,"  I  said,  handing  over  the  letter.  And 
there  was  gladness  in  my  voice.  ...  A  door  of  es 
cape  had  opened.  .  .  . 

My  mother  noticed  the  gladness  and  toned  her 
own  voice  to  match  it,  sadly  as  she  would  miss  me. 

"That  is  extremely  kind  of  her,"  she  exclaimed. 
"Of  course  you  must  go.  You  are  not  looking 
well,  and  the  change  will  do  you  good." 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  go,"  I  answered.  And 
thereupon  we  fell  to  discussing  ways  and  means, 
and  above  all,  my  wardrobe. 

"Tell  me,  mother,"  I  asked  presently,  "why  has 
the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy  always  shown  me  such 
kindness?  I  owe  my  splendid  education  to  her." 

"Your  father  was  her  favourite  cousin,  Jac 
queline;  indeed,  had  she  not  been  married  already, 

who  knows "  She  broke  off.  But  I  could 

fill  in  the  words  for  myself.  .  .  . 


That  night,  as   I  lay  dreaming  of  my  visit  to 
Brussels,  I  found  to  my  surprise  that  I  was  torn  be- 


28  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

tween  a  wish  to  go  and  an  even  greater  wish  to  stay 
at  home,  and  that  despite  my  growing  fear  of 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy. 

These  conflicting  desires  puzzled  me,  until  I  end 
ed  by  understanding  the  source  from  which  they 
sprang.  The  disturbing  factor  was  my  love  for 
Jean  of  the  Bellows.  How  could  I  possibly  go 
away  at  such  a  moment?  I  would  indeed 'fret,  fret 
myself  to  death  with  the  longing  to  have  news  of 
him.  The  Marquise  du  Quesnoy  would  not  be  able 
to  satisfy  this  longing.  To  my  knowledge,  Jean 
had  never  been  in  the  Chateau  du  Quesnoy.  True, 
now  I  came  to  consider,  the  marquise  had  always 
evinced  an  especial  interest  in  him.  She  rarely 
saw  me  without  making  some  inquiry  after  him; 
or,  if  she  did  not,  then  Leon  de  Tesson  would. 
And  if,  as  so  often  happened,  they  were  together 
when  I  was  questioned,  and  I  were  able  to  give  some 
vivid  little  word  sketch,  then  I  would  catch  a  glance 
and  a  smile  pass  between  them.  A  wistful  smile  on 
her  side,  one  of  encouragement  on  his. 

As  a  child  I  used  to  attribute  their  interest  to  the 
love  I  imagined  the  whole  world  must  bear  Jean 
of  the  Bellows ;  and  by  the  time  I  was  grown  up — 
que  voulez-vous! — I  had  come  to  expect  the  inquiry 
without  speculation. 

Where  was  he  now,  this  wayward  Jean  who  was 
for  ever  blowing  the  bellows?  Had  he  already 
joined  Jeannette?  .  .  . 

Even  as  I  asked  myself  the  question  a  shudder 
swept  through  me,  as,  like  a  phantom,  there  passed 
before  my  mind's  eye  the  cart  with  the  dead,  white 
cow. 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  29 

No,  ah,  no;  Jean  of  the  Bellows  was  not  with 
Jeannette!  .  .  . 

And  in  a  sudden  wild  panic  I  drew  the  clothes 
over  my  head. 

"Jeannette  has  found  peace,"  I  breathed;  and  lay 
trembling  in  the  dark,  lest  Jacques  du  Quesnoy 
should  hear  me  at  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm.  .  .  . 

A  peace  beyond  the  comprehension  of  a  restless 
mortal  like  myself? 

And  on  the  question,  I  had  a  terrifying  picture 
of  two  great  nervous  hands  making  the  gesture  I 
dreaded  most — what  a  road  of  thought  to  run  down 
in  the  dead  of  night !  .  .  . 

Would  the  light  never  dawn? 

At  every  sound  I  started :  now  it  would  be  the 
gnawing  of  a  mouse;  now  that  inexplicable  creak 
ing  and  cracking  of  the  furniture  which  only  comes 
at  dark. 

But  would  it  be  possible  to  solve  the  mystery  of 
Jeannette's  disappearance?  I  pondered  over  this 
question  until  my  head  ached,  and  I  tossed  as  if  in 
fever.  And  then,  at  last,  was  it  my  brain,  or  a 
voice  calling  out  there  on  the  lonely  greves : — 

"Dig  where  the  white  cow  lies  buried." 

Would  the  night  never  end !  .  .  . 

And  so  the  hours  passed,  and  the  blessed  dawn 
broke  up  the  darkness  that  pressed  upon  me  like  a 
pall. 

One  by  one,  the  pieces  of  furniture  became  vis 
ible.  Ghostly  shapes  at  first,  they  gradually  re 
solved  themselves  into  solid  wood  when  fully 
enveloped  in  the  light  of  day.  And  it  was  thus  the 


30  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

white  cow's  grave  would  become  ...  a  hole  where 
a  dead  beast  was  buried — and  nothing  more. 

Night  is  a  fantastical  weaver.  Who  can  say 
whether  the  threads  she  will  use  will  be  bright  or 
sombre;  flimsy  as  gossamer,  or  durable  as  a  wind 
ing-sheet?  And  yet,  what  a  world  of  difference 
their  colour  and  their  texture  make  to  the  wearer 
of  this  garment  woven  by  the  night. 

I  rose  heavy-eyed  and  languid. 

"Jacqueline,  you  have  not  slept  again,"  was  my 
mother's  greeting. 

"No,  mother,  not  very  well." 

"Then,  my  child,  you  will  sit  down  at  once  after 
breakfast  and  write  to  the  marquise  accepting  her 
invitation." 

"I  think  not,  mother  dear.  You  see,  I  have 
thought  things  over,  and  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Brussels.  Besides,  how 
could  I  leave  you  here  all  alone  ?  I  should  be  most 
unhappy."  And  I  slipped  my  arms  about  her, 
pressing  my  cheek  against  her  gentle  face. 

"But,  Jacqueline,  this  is  nonsense;  you  must  go; 
Anne  will  look  after  me."  Yet  her  arms  were  en 
circling  me  tightly,  as  though  they  could  never 
loose  their  hold. 

"Not  as  I  look  after  you,"  I  pleaded.  "Indeed, 
mother,  I  do  not  want  to  go.  I  will  send  the  mar 
quise  my  photograph  instead.'' 

And  so  the  door  of  escape  was  closed.  For 
when  I  want  my  own  way  I  usually  get  it :  the 
Montviron  blood  in  me  being  stronger  than  the 
Lolif. 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  31 

"You  are  your  father's  child,"  my  mother  would 
say,  smiling,  half-sad,  half-proud  that  it  should  be 
so. 

"Mother,"  I  asked  presently,  and  with  intentional 
abruptness :  "did  you  know  that  the  Marquis  du 
Quesnoy  admires  Jeannette  immensely?" 

"Why  think  of  such  things,  Jacqueline?  There 
is  always  gossip  if  you  care  to  listen." 

I  coloured. 

"I  have  not  been  listening  to  gossip,"  I  protested 
with  some  indignation;  "I  am  judging  by  my  own 
eyesight." 

"Tiens!"  And  the  single  syllable  betrayed  that 
even  my  dear  mother  had  her  share  of  a  woman's 
curiosity — though  why  call  curiosity  a  woman's 
monopoly  ? 

"Yes,  I  noticed  it  even  when  as  a  child  I  used 
to  go  up  to  the  Chateau  du  Quesnoy  for  my  lessons 
with  Monsieur  de  Tesson." 

"Ah,  yes,  Leon  de  Tesson — a  wonderfully  cul 
tured  man." 

Again  her  words  encouraged  me  to  continue. 

"Hardly  a  week  passed  without  her  coming  to 
call;  and  then  I  would  watch  her  from  the  study 
window,  walking  in  the  rose  garden  with  the  mar 
quis.  He  would  stop  to  gather  her  a  rose;  stoop 
to  fasten  it  beneath  her  white  throat,  and  again  and 
again  would  raise  her  hand  to  his  lips 

"Jacqueline!" 

"I  can't  help  it,  mother;  I'm  only  telling  you  what 
I  used  to  see.  As  a  child  I  never  thought  it  strange 
— she  was  so  beautiful — but  when  I  grew  old 
er " 


32  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"And  what  was  the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy  doing 
while  her  husband  was  behaving  in  such  a  ... 
such  a  ...  foolish  way?"  The  adjective  was 
rather  feeble,  I  thought;  but  indignation,  modesty, 
and  interest  all  strove  for  the  mastery  in  my 
mother's  voice. 

"Oh,  the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy  was  often  talking 
to  Monsieur  de  Tesson.  I  can  still  see  her  white 
fingers  tracing  the  headlines  of  my  copy-books. 
Monsieur  de  Tesson 's  fingers  would  follow  them 
too,  until  they  met  hers,  when  their  hands  would 
clasp.  And  it  was  at  that  moment  I  would  slip  away 
to  a  small  side  window  in  the  study  to  watch  the 
marquis  and  Jeannette  de  Saint-Quentin.  I  called 
them  my  fairy  prince  and  princess  walking  in  their 
enchanted  garden;  while  Monsieur  de  Tesson  was 
the  wicked  wizard  who  cast  spells  over  the  beautiful 
Queen,  Claire  du  Quesnoy.  I  never  liked  Leon  de 
Tesson,  despite  his  unfailing  kindness  to  me." 

My  mother,  however,  was  not  listening  to  the 
end  of  my  story. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  drawing  a  breath  of  relief; 
"Jeannette  was  not  married  then." 

"But  it  was  just  the  same  after  she  was  married," 
I  insisted. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  all  this,  Jacqueline?"  inter 
rupted  my  mother  almost  querulously.  "Is  it  that 
I  may  think  well  of  Jean  of  the  Bellows?"  How 
unlike  my  mother! 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  flashed  out.  "What  is 
Jean  of  the  Bellows  to  me?  I  cannot  see  your 
argument.  We  were  talking  of  the  Marquise  du 
Quesnoy,  and  thus  the  whole  conversation  arose. 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  33 

And  I  hold  that  it  was  a  strange  house  to  send  your 
daughter  into,  who  could  not  even  bear  her  father's 
name." 

"Jacqueline!  .  .  .  My  child!  .  .  ." 

In  a  passion  of  remorse  I  flung  myself  on  my 
knees  beside  her. 

"Mother!     Mother!    Forgive  me!" 

But  it  was  long  before  I  could  comfort  her.  In 
deed  I  fear  my  cruel  words  sank  into  her  loving 
heart  never  to  be  forgotten. 

And  it  had  all  arisen  because  she  had  hinted 
again  that  I  loved  Jean  of  the  Bellows — a  poor 
reason  for  so  grave  an  offence.  Nevertheless,  I 
think  that  it  was  one  she  divined,  else  never  could 
she  have  pardoned  me. 

"It  was  for  your  own  good,  dear  child,"  she 
murmured,  "that  I  accepted  the  Marquise  du  Ques- 
noy's  offer  to  educate  you  in  a  way  that  would  en 
able  you  to  fill  any  station  of  life.  She  proffered 
it,  too,  in  your  father's  name,  so  how  could  I  re 
fuse,  more  especially  as  he  had  made  her  promise 
to  befriend  you  on  his  death-bed." 

"Yes,  yes,  mother,  I  understand ' 

"But  had  I  known  that  such  things  were  going  on 
up  at  the  chateau  as  you  have  described,  I  would 
never  have  allowed  you  to  go,  never." 

"Then  I  am  glad  you  were  in  ignorance." 

"Of  course,  I  had  heard  gossip.  There  were 
also  stories  about  Monsieur  de  Tesson  and  the  Mar 
quise  du  Quesnoy ;  but,  child,  people  in  glass  houses 
should  not  throw  stones.  ...  I  did  not  listen  .  .  . 
would  not  believe  .  .  .  and  certainly  could  not  cast 
a  stone " 


34  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Oh,  mother,  mother,  now  you  are  making  me 
wretched,  and  then  I  shall  get  angry,  you  know  I 
always  do.  My  going  to  their  chateau  has  done  me 

no  harm.  I  don't  know  why  I  mentioned  it " 

I  bit  my  lips,  for  my  mother  had  just  told  me  why 
she  thought  I  had  spoken. 

A  silence  fell,  which  neither  of  us  seemed  quite 
to  know  how  to  break.  There  was  anxiety  in  my 
mother's  sweet  face  as  she  looked  into  the  fire. 

"Do  you  believe  Jeannette  du  Quesnoy  to  be  with 
the  marquis?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Oh,  no !  Poor  Jeannette  is  with  no  one !"  The 
words  had  burst  from  my  lips  before  I  could  check 
them;  and  by  my  mother's  expression  I  realised 
their  full  significance. 

"Then  you  think  the  poor  thing  has  made  away 
with  herself?" 

Shivering,  I  glanced  towards  the  window.  Was 
I  breaking  the  silence,  and  would  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy  know  it?  ... 

"Her  disappearance  is  a  mystery,"  I  faltered. 

"Jacqueline,  do  you  know  where  she  is?" 

"Mon  Dieu!  How  should  I  know,"  I  ex 
claimed. 

"Your  behaviour,  since  her  disappearance,  has 
troubled  me,  my  child.  You  have  looked  ill " 

"Only  since  I  had — what  you  were  pleased  to  call 
— a  frightful  nightmare.  Mother,  dear,  don't  get 
any  wrong  ideas  into  your  head.  I  know  no  more 
than  you  do  of  the  whereabouts  of  Jeannette  du 
Quesnoy." 

But  as  I  went  about  my  daily  duties  I  asked  my 
self  if  I  had  spoken  the  truth.  Were  I  to  lay  bare 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  35 

my  inmost  thoughts  what  should  I  have  answered? 
.  .  .  Dared  I  put  my  haunting  suspicions  into 
words — even  to  myself?  .  .  . 

No  indeed!  Why  should  I  fling  the  door  wide 
open  to  my  terror,  prematurely?  Every  doubt 
(and,  Dieu  merci,  my  reason  could  still  cling  des 
perately  to  each  one)  must  be  dispelled  before  I 
would  add  another  and  a  more  agonising  compan 
ion  to  my  fears.  .  .  .  Oh,  reason,  come  to  my 
assistance ! 

None  the  less,  my  horror  of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy 
redoubled,  and  I  dared  not  go  out  for  fear  of 
meeting  him. 

Then  slowly,  yet  for  that  very  reason  the  more 
determinedly,  a  plan  began  to  shape  itself  in  my 
mind.  I  would  dig  where  the  white  cow  lay  bur 
ied — or  rather,  where  I  supposed  it  to  lie  buried— 
and  would  thus  allay  or  confirm  my  suspicions.  But 
it  must  be  done  under  cover  of  the  night.  The 
prospect  filled  me  with  apprehension,  until  I  found 
courage  to  face  it  and  to  think  out  how  best  it 
might  be  accomplished.  That  very  night  I  would 
slip  from  the  house,  taking  a  spade  with  me,  and 
would  dig,  and  dig,  until  I  fathomed  what  that 
grave  on  the  lonely  stretches  of  sand  concealed.  I 
need  have  no  fear  of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  or  of  any 
one  else  interrupting  me;  for  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  leper-house  was  shunned  at  dark  by  man, 
woman,  and  child. 

The  afternoon  was  waning:  disconsolate,  I  was 
standing  in  my  bedroom  looking  out  of  the  window 
when  I  saw  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  coming  down  the 
road.  I  hid  behind  the  curtains,  but  not  before  his 


36  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

eyes  had  met  mine.  He  stopped,  staring  up  at  the 
window.  From  behind  the  curtains  I  watched 
him; — what  a  giant  of  a  man  he  was,  standing  in 
the  fading  light,  tugging  at  his  long  moustaches. 
.  .  .  How  strong  to  clutch  and  crush.  .  .  . 

And  now,  mingled  with  my  fear  of  him,  there 
sprang  up  a  fierce  rage :  a  longing  to  do  him  harm. 

"Wait  until  to-night,"  I  told  myself.  "Chacun 
son  tour." 

At  the  sound  of  Auguste  whistling  as  he  came  out 
of  the  shed  where  the  sheep  were  penned,  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy  strode  on  down  the  road  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  greves. 

"My  turn  is  coming! — I  am  not  daunted  yet!" 
I  ejaculated  to  his  retreating  form.  It  is  so  easy 
to  be  brave  when  you  are  within  the  walls,  and  your 
enemy  without,  and — in  retreat. 

But  I  was  very  glad  to  descend  to  the  salle  basse 
and  listen  to  the  whimsical  talk  of  old  Anne,  and 
to  the  sweet  voice  of  my  mother.  I  found  it  took 
me  all  my  courage  to  run  even  as  far  as  the  tool- 
house  to  fetch  my  spade,  so  that  it  should  be  in 
readiness.  I  had  one  of  my  own,  made  light  and 
strong  for  a  woman's  use.  In  the  heft  was  carved 
my  name. 

"You  are  not  eating  anything,  Jacqueline,"  re 
marked  my  mother.  "What  are  you  thinking 
about,  my  child?" 

We  were  at  supper,  and  in  sooth  my  thoughts  had 
gone  astray  along  with  my  appetite. 

Old  Anne  turned  from  bending  over  the  cocotte 
to  ladle  out  the  soup. 

"She  is  wondering  what  has  become  of  Madame 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  37 

Jacques,"  she  chimed  in,  trespassing,  as  usual,  on 
her  privileges  of  the  old  servant  of  the  house. 

"And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of 
her?"  I  asked,  anxious  to  divert  attention  from 
myself. 

"Dame!  some  say  she  has  eloped  with  the  Mar 
quis  du  Quesnoy;  others  hold  'tis  with  Jean  of  the 
Bellows,  and  again  there  are  others  who  hint  at 
darker,  though  not  more  ugly,  things." 

"Tiens!"  .   .   . 

"Dame!  oui!  nor  would  she  be  the  first,  nor  is 
she  likely  to  be  the  last,  that  makes  use  of  water 
for  more  than  washing  and  cooking.  Nothing  like 
water  for  cooling  lust !  .  .  ." 

"Anne !"  sharply  reprimanded  my  mother. 

But  the  old  woman's  tongue  was  loosed,  and  she 
rambled  on. 

"Auguste  says  Monsieur  Jacques  seems  to  be  only 
waiting  for  some  one  to  put  him  in  the  mad 
house." 

"Anne  be  silent !" 

"Three  times  to-day  it  is  that  he  has  seen  him 
stride  past  this  farm  in  search  of  that  dog  of  his 
that  has  taken  to  running  away.  He  will  be  shoot 
ing  it  next.  .  .  ." 

"Or  strangling  it,"  I  added,  and  could  have  wept 
with  rage  at  having  spoken. 

My  mother  turned  surprised  eyes  upon  me,  while 
old  Anne  beamed ;  it  was  a  humour  which  apparent 
ly  pleased  her  as  much  as  it  shocked  my  mother. 

I  glanced  instinctively  towards  the  window. 
Would  the  great  hands  rise  up  and  make  the  dread 
ed  gesture?  Was  it  my  fancy,  or  did  the  giant 


38  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

figure  of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  vanish  from  within 
the  circle  of  light?  .  .  . 

"Anne,  you  have  forgotten  to  close  the  shutters!" 
I  exclaimed  sharply.  "How  often  must  I  tell  you 
that  I  hate  their  being  left  unclosed?"  My  anger 
was  rising  as  my  fear  increased. 

"Oh!  la,  la,  and  'tis  but  once  that  you  will  have 
had  to  tell  me,  seeing  you  have  never  noticed  them 
shut  or  open  before  to-night." 

"You  insolent  creature!" 

"Hush,  dear;  Anne  did  not  mean  to  be  insolent. 
You  are  not  well  to-night." 

"Not  well?  .  .  .  Just  because  I  like  the  shutters 
closed,  and  dislike  impertinence  in  a  servant? — 
Par  exemple!" 

"Aie!  One  would  think  the  vicomte  himself  was 
talking,"  chuckled  old  Anne,  in  no  way  disconcerted. 

"Because  you  are  not  yourself,  Jacqueline,"  con 
cluded  my  mother. 

"No,  perversely  enough,  she  is  her  father  to 
night." 

"Be  quiet,  Anne,  or  I  shall  lose  patience  with 
you." 

"Not  for  the  first  time,  madame.  Do  you  remem 
ber  when  the  vicomte  was  alive  and  this  child 
was  expected,  what  I  said  to  you,  and  for  answer 
you  slapped  my  face? — Sapristi!  I  could  not  have 
been  more  surprised  had  a  dove  struck  me  with  its 
white  wings.  And  'twas  nothing  but  the  truth  I 
told  you,  bien  sur." 

And  on  the  words,  old  Anne  left  the  salle  basse  to 
close  the  shutters. 

My  mother's  face  was  flushed  and  her  eyes  were 


THE  RUINED  TOWER  39 

full  of  tears.  And,  as  usual,  anger  and  sorrow 
bubbled  up  within  me. 

Had  the  old  servant,  I  wondered,  been  worldly 
wise  enough  to  urge  upon  my  mother  the  necessity 
of  a  marriage  with  my  father  for  the  sake  of  the 
unborn  child  who  must  reap  what  its  parents  had 
sown?  .  .  . 

The  thought  awoke  the  eternal  regret,  the  chaf 
ing,  and  the  sense  of  injury. 

My  temper  increased. 

"You  spoil  Anne,"  I  stormed.  "You  know  the 
shutters  ought  to  have  been  shut  long  ago,  yet  you 
never  said  a  word.  The  last  thing  I  can  endure  is 
prying  eyes." 

"Prying  eyes,  Jacqueline?" 

"Yes,  prying  eyes!  Cannot  people  look  in  from 
the  outside,  themselves  unseen,  while  we  are  here  in 
the  full  blaze  of  the  lamplight?" 

"But,  my  dear,  who  wants  to  look  in?" 

"Those  who  want  to  know  what  we  are  doing,  of 
course." 

My  mother's  expression  of  utter  amazement 
brought  me  to  my  feet. 

"Oh,  I  am  going  to  bed !"  I  cried.  "Don't  show 
such  surprise,  mother;  you  ought  to  thank  me 
rather :  bad-tempered  people  are  best  in  bed.  Good 
night."  And  I  kissed  her  and  hurried  from  the 
salle  basse. 

But  as  I  raced  upstairs  I  told  myself  that  I  was 
growing  like  Jacques  du  Quesnoy :  I  even  used  his 
very  expression.  Was  it  not  abundantly  true, 
though,  that  I  did  hate  prying  eyes,  when  those 
eyes  were  his?  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

IT  was  long  before  all  sounds  in  the  house  had 
ceased :  so  long  that  my  courage  was  slipping  from 
me. 

Nervously,  I  looked  out  of  the  window.  A  keen 
wind,  and  a  star-lit  night.  But  where  was  the 
moon? 

I  wrapped  myself  in  a  heavy  cloak,  and  sat  shiv 
ering  in  the  gripping  cold  of  indecision,  which  is 
colder  than  the  coldest  wind  that  ever  blew. 

Ten  o'clock  struck.  When  should  I  start? 
Should  it  be  at  eleven  or  at  twelve  o'clock  ?  or  should 
I  set  off  at  once?  While  I  hesitated,  I  heard  my 
mother's  door  open  and  a  moment  later  there  came 
a  tap  on  mine.  I  made  no  response.  She  tapped 
again  and  called  softly — 

"Jacqueline,  child,  are  you  asleep?" 

I  gave  no  answer. 

"I  am  glad  she  sleeps,"  whispered  the  gentle 
voice;  and  then  followed  the  sound  of  retreating 
footsteps. 

The  moment  had  come  and  gone.  Would  I 
regret  not  having  made  it  mine  ?  .  .  . 

And  the  indecision  grew.  .  .  . 

Another  hour  passed.  I  half  dozed  in  my  chair, 
to  awake  chilled  and  wholly  unnerved.  Jacques  du 

40 


THE  LEPER'S  BELL  41 

Quesnoy  would  discover  that  the  grave  had  been 
tampered  with,  and  would  at  once  suspect  me. 
What  then?  And  my  frightened  heart  made 
answer:  "Then  you  would  fly  at  once  to  Brus 
sels.  .  .  ." 

I  rose  and  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy's  face  seemed  to  stare  up  at  me 
from  the  road  as  it  had  stared  that  afternoon.  And 
on  a  sudden  there  flashed  up  within  me  the  rage  I 
had  then  experienced.  How  long  would  he  thus 
dog  my  every  movement — make  my  life  a  torture? 
Was  I  a  coward  that  I  should  endure  without  any 
attempt  at  retaliation?  .  .  .  Where  was  the  Mont- 
viron  spirit  ? 

I  set  my  teeth  in  a  grim  resolve,  casting  hesitation 
behind  me.  .  .  . 

Outside  the  night  was  full  of  shadows,  astir  with 
phantom  shapes,  pulsating  with  low  whisperings. 
.  .  .  One  voice  grew  ever  louder,  resenting  my 
stubborn  will  that  forced  me  to  defy  it;  it  drove  me 
on  despite  all  the  denizens  of  the  dark.  .  .  . 

The  rustlings  in  the  willows  made  me  catch  my 
breath.  A  great  white  owl  flapped  across  my  path, 
and  vanished  in  the  direction  of  the  leper-house, 
hooting.  .  .  .  On  the  greve  there  reached  me  the 
stealthy,  awesome  lapping  from  the  river — pitiless 
it  sounded;  .  .  .  the  screech  of  some  sea-bird, 
homeless  in  the  wilderness  of  tangue;  .  .  .  the  dull 
splashing  of  the  falling  sand  upon  the  banks — a 
sound  that  brings  ever  with  it  a  curious  pang  of  re 
gret,  of  apprehension.  .  .  . 

I  should  not  like  to  drown ! 

What  if  poor  Jeannette  du  Quesnoy  lay  where  the 


42  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

rustling  waters  flowed  relentlessly  over  her.  .  .  . 
Jeannette,  who  loved  the  sunshine — the  birds  and 
the  flowers  .  .  .  who  was  herself  like  some  flutter 
ing  sweet-songed  bird,  some  delicate,  yet  brilliant 
flower,  and  with  all  the  warmth  of  the  sun  burning 
in  her  passionate  heart. 

Thus  I  always  described  her  to  myself — and  I  am 
a  woman  too,  and  a  jealous  one,  so  the  portrait 
should  be  true. 

Then,  to  picture  her,  even  for  an  instant,  lying 
out  there  in  the  river,  sent  a  chill  to  my  own 
heart.  Trembling,  I  struck  a  match  and  stared 
wide-eyed  around  the  narrow  sphere  of  light  it 
cast. 

I  had  brought  a  lantern,  but  did  not  want  to  use 
it  until  it  should  be  actually  necessary. 

Eager  to  begin  my  task  and  get  it  over,  I  quick 
ened  my  steps.  And  I  was  congratulating  myself 
on  the  strength  of  my  vigorous  young  body  that 
would  make  nothing  of  digging  deep  into  the 
ground,  when,  seeming  to  hang  'twixt  earth  and 
sky,  there  welled  out  the  single  note  of  a  bell — 
Ding!  .  .  . 

I  stopped,  holding  my  breath;  for  it  was  such  a 
peculiar  note :  never  had  sheep,  or  cow,  or  goat  car 
ried  such  a  bell. 

What  was  it  then  ?  And  my  foolish  heart  fell  to 
beating  so  that  I  could  hardly  breathe. 

Again  the  note  rose  to  hang  vibrating,  then  drop 
to  silence ;  only  to  rise  again :  a  harsh  note  of 
warning — of  lament. 

I  had  the  sensation  of  drowning — in  waves  of 
fear.  .  .  .  The  bell  was  a  leper's  bell.  .  .  . 


THE  LEPER'S  BELL  43 

I,  who  had  always  doubted,  knew  now  that  my 
doubt  had  been  a  liar.  .  .  . 

Instinctively  my  mother's  name  rose  to  my  lips 
— the  child's  cry  for  protection.  .  .  . 

In  vain  I  tried  to  turn  and  flee,  terror  chained  me 
to  the  spot.  All  the  stories  that  I  had  heard  about 
the  Leper  of  the  Cross,  who  haunted  these  greves  at 
night,  surged  through  my  brain,  paralysing  it.  ... 

The  leper,  wandering  over  the  greves — how  pic 
ture  him?  .  .  .  And  my  starting  eyes  strove  to 
pierce  farther  than  they  might. 

If  he  were  to  come  and  lay  his  snow-white  hand 
upon  me?  .  .  . 

Out  tolled  the  bell  again,  sounding  its  warning: 
"A  leper  is  coming,  make  good  your  retreat!"  .  .  . 
And  yet  I  could  not  fly,  invisible  fingers  seemed  to 
twine  themselves  about  me. 

I  flung  myself  on  the  sand,  sought  to  scratch  a 
hole  in  which  to  hide. 

Was  he  perhaps  some  actual  living  man,  conceal 
ing  himself  during  the  daytime  to  wander  desolate 
all  through  the  night  ?  Or  was  it  indeed  the  ghost 
of  the  Leper  of  the  Cross,  dead  these  many,  many 
ages? 

I  knew  not  which  of  the  two  I  dreaded  most. 

From  out  the  shadows  of  the  ruins  I  saw  a  dark 
shape  emerge — pass  the  belt  of  oak-trees — and  de 
scend  upon  the  short  grass  of  the  pres-sales.  And 
with  every  step  there  rang  out  the  leper's  bell. 

Heart  and  brain  can  only  endure  so  much  and 
then,  Dieu  merci,  there  ensues  a  blank.  .  .  . 

A  blank  it  certainly  was  that  fell  upon  me,  and 
yet,  through  it  all,  I  was  conscious  of  a  sound  travel- 


44  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

ling,  as  it  were,  from  a  long,  long  distance — the 
sound  of  heavy  earth  falling  on  a  newly  made 
grave,  and  the  tread  of  earth  being  beaten  down. 

And  then,  and  it  must  have  been  this  which  cut 
its  way  to  my  swooning  senses,  a  human  cry  so 
piercing  in  its  agony  that  it  wrung  an  answering 
moan  from  me. 

Wearily  I  lifted  my  head :  there,  where  I  imag 
ined  the  white  cow  to  have  been  buried,  I  saw  the 
dark  figure  of  the  leper.  .  .  .  He  stooped,  and  then 
the  bell  rang  out  its  harsh  warning :  he  raised  him 
self  to  stoop  once  more,  and  then  rise  with  some  in 
distinct  object  held  close  in  his  arms. 

Across  the  sands  and  the  short  grasses  he  drifted, 
wraith-like,  gigantic  in  the  uncertain  starlight,  until 
he  was  swallowed  up  in  the  shadows  of  the  leper- 
house. 

And  all  the  time  the  bell  had  clanged  rhythmically. 

To  me,  it  said :  "A  leper !  A  leper !  Beware ! 
Beware!" 

Again  that  cry  as  of  a  soul  in  extremis.  .  .  . 

"Memento  mori!       Memento  mori!" 

—  Remember  death!  Remember  death!  —  I, 
who  was  still  so  young? — Oh,  no!  No!  Why 
should  I  remember  death?  .  .  . 

And  I  was  on  my  feet  fleeing  over  the  stretches 
of  sand  and  grass — fleeing  before  that  terrible  cry. 

"Mon  dieu!  lend  me  wings!"  .  .  . 


Home  at  last,  with  just  enough  sense  left  to  enter 
the  house  without  making  a  noise. 

It  was  only  when  the  dawn  began  to  steal  into 


THE  LEPER'S  BELL  45 

my  room  that  I  remembered  I  had  left  my  spade 
out  on  the  greves. 

But  my  forgetfulness  caused  me  no  uneasiness. 
Why  should  it?  What  I  had  witnessed  had 
changed  my  whole  train  of  thought.  My  suspicions 
were  groundless.  The  spot  where  I  had  imagined 
the  white  cow  to  have  been  buried  was  the  grave  of 
some  leper,  dead  these  ages  gone  by.  A  spot  to  be 
shunned  by  me  in  the  future. 

And  Jacques  du  Quesnoy's  dog?  Why  had  it 
scratched  on  that  ancient  grave? 

Ah — that  was  more  than  I  could  answer.  But 
we  are  told  that  animals  hold  some  mysterious  com 
munication  with  spirits  from  the  other  world. 

At  any  rate  the  thought  of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy 
came  as  a  wholesome  tonic.  My  fear  of  him  was 
completely  swallowed  up  in  that  other  and  greatest 
fear  of  all — fear  of  the  supernatural. 

No;  I  would  never  again  enter  the  ruined  leper- 
house. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SILENCE ! 

1 

WHAT  transformation  does  daylight  not  work  in 
the  human  brain? 

When  the  day  was  come,  fully  come,  and  with  it 
all  the  well-known,  homely  sounds,  the  familiar 
faces,  the  smile  or  frown,  all  so  tangible,  then,  alas ! 
my  fears  were  reversed.  The  supernatural  faded 
into  the  dimness  of  the  night,  and  it  was  of  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy  I  went  once  more  in  dread.  This  way 
and  that  my  quivering  nerves  wrenched  me.  One 
thing  was  certain,  I  must  recover  my  spade  without 
loss  of  time. 

But  the  daylight  was  come,  and  my  tired  eyes 
were  at  last  closing  in  sleep — soothed  to  it  by  the 
security  offered  in  the  whistling  of  Auguste  down 
below  in  the  yard;  in  the  clickety-clack  of  Anne's 
sabots,  as  she  bustled  hither  and  thither;  and  in  all 
the  wholesome,  natural  sounds  of  farm  life  as  they 
came  drifting  up  to  me.  I  slept.  .  .  . 

But  how  short  a  time  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  slept, 
before  I  was  awakened  by  the  voice  of  old  Anne, 
who  asked  ironically  if  it  were  thus  the  Parisian 
demoiselles  behaved. 

"Your  mother  has  been  up  and  about  for  hours," 
46 


SILENCE !  47 

she  grumbled.  "But  you  weren't  to  be  disturbed, 
oh,  dame,  non!  And  you  would  have  been  allowed 
to  sleep  on  until  night  came  round  again,  if  I  hadn't 
run  upstairs  as  soon  as  her  back  was  turned — vlan!" 

"Yes,  you  were  always  a  disagreeable  old 
woman!"  I  remarked. 

Anne  bent  over  the  bed  to  look  into  my  face. 

"You're  a  Montviron,  there  is  no  mistake  about 
it,"  she  affirmed. 

"I  suppose  I  am." 

"Give  me  the  Lolif  strain." 

"No  one  is  going  to  give  you  either,  that  I  am 
aware  of." 

"Sapristi!"  she  shrilled. 

"And  now  fetch  me  a  cup  of  coffee — 

"To  drink  in  bed?  .  .  .  Spoil  you?  And  then 
have  you  turn  on  me?  .  .  .  dame,  non!" 

"Well,  I'll  drink  it  while  I  dress,  Anne.  I  shall 
be  the  quicker  finished,  you  see." 

But  she  stood,  firmly  planted,  seemingly  immov 
able  :  she  was  taking  her  revenge  for  my  scolding 
her  the  previous  night. 

I  looked  at  her  affectionately : — 

"Anne,"  I  whispered,  and  threw  my  head  a  little 
on  one  side. 

Her  rugged  face  began  to  soften. 

"A  pretty  pair  of  eyes  you  have  to  let  your 
mother  look  into !  Some  one  might  have  drawn  a 
black  finger  beneath  each  one  of  them,"  she  com 
plained:  and  so  complaining  left  the  room  with  an 
assurance  that  I  might  go  without  my  coffee  for 
aught  she  cared. 

I  lay  in  bed  and  waited.     And  soon  I  heard  her 


48  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

faithful  old  feet  come  toiling  up  the  stairs.      Never 
had  coffee  tasted  more  delicious. 

As  I  ran  downstairs,  my  mother  came  in  from 
the  farm  buildings. 

"I  hope  you  have  had  your  sleep  out,  dear,"  she 
said,  embracing  me. 

Before  I  could  answer  Anne's  voice  arose  from 
the  back-kitchen. 

"Her  sleep  out? — dame!  I  should  just  think 
she  had !  And  much  good  it  has  done  her.  Have 
you  noticed  her  eyes,  madame?" 

"My  poor  child,  how  ill  you  look.  Anne!  tell 
Auguste  to  put  the  horse  in  the  spring  cart.  I  am 
going  to  take  Jacqueline  to  the  doctor  at  once. 
Be  quick." 

"You  are  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort!"  I 
cried.  "I  spent  all  yesterday  in  the  house,  as  you 
know,  and  that  never  agrees  with  me.  I  shall  take 
a  quick  walk,  and  on  my  return  there  will  be  no 
question  of  consulting  a  doctor."  And  with  a  kiss 
I  put  my  mother  firmly  on  one  side  and  went  out. 

"Sapristi!"  screamed  the  old  servant  as  I  shut  the 
door,  and  set  off  at  a  run  towards  the  greves. 

How  different  everything  looked  in  the  light  of 
day.  I  felt  my  courage  rise  with  every  step.  The 
elastic  spirits  of  youth  soon  resume  their  sway. 
But,  on  turning  the  bend  which  brings  the  ruins 
into  sight,  an  amazing  scene  met  my  gaze.  Andre 
and  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  were  bending  over  the 
very  spot  where  the  figure  of  the  leper  had  bent. 
They  had  evidently  just  opened  the  grave,  for  the 


SILENCE!  49 

earth  lay  piled  upon  either  side,  and,  in  a  state  of 
wild  excitement,  Jacques  du  Quesnoy's  dog  stood 
looking  on. 

I  had  gone  through  far  too  much,  on  account  of 
that  mysterious  grave,  not  to  be  determined  to 
fathom  its  secret,  now  that  I  had  the  opportunity. 
Before  either  of  the  men  were  aware  of  my  ap 
proach,  I  was  looking  into  it.  A  white  cow  lay 
within,  its  legs  upturned,  the  carcass  dressed  as  by 
a  butcher — then  why  buried  instead  of  eaten? 

But  another  thing  it  was  that  caught  my  eyes, 
and  sent  the  blood  rushing  back  to  my  heart,  turn 
ing  me  sick — so  tiny  a  thing  it  was  too.  Had 
Andre  seen  it,  I  wondered.  His  face  was  set  as 
if  carved  in  stone;  his  brother's,  on  the  contrary, 
was  convulsed,  and  working  as  with  some  inward 
emotion.  Even  as  I  looked  and  marvelled,  his 
eyes  seemed  to  have  seen  that  same  small  thing,  for 
with  a  swift,  violent  movement  he  had  flung  a 
spadeful  of  earth  upon  it. 

My  appearance  had  been  so  sudden,  that  I  had 
had  but  the  one  second  'in  which  to  take  all  this  in, 
before  either  of  the  men  spoke. 

What  a  look  it  was  that  Jacques  du  Quesnoy 
cast  upon  me — a  hatred  so  fierce  and  so  cruel,  that 
involuntarily  I  shrank  close  to  Andre,  who  was 
scrutinising  me  with  those  strangely  intent  eyes  of 
his. 

"Your  pardon,  messieurs,"  I  faltered,  "but  for 
the  last  few  days  your  dog  has  scratched  at  this 
spot;  I  felt  sure  a  friend  of  hers  lay  buried  here." 

"As  you  observe,  a  white  cow,  mademoiselle," 
returned  Andre,  with  a  pointed  courtesy  that  stung. 


50  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Woman's  prying  eyes,  as  usual,"  snarled  his 
brother.  And  I  could  see  his  great  hands  opening 
and  shutting.  I  knew  only  too  well  what  the  move 
ment  meant,  and  had  no  desire  to  stay.  I  had 
seen  more  than  enough. 

With  a  hasty  "au  revoir,"  I  turned  away.  It 
was  only  when  I  had  reached  the  bend  that  I  glanced 
back.  Jacques  was  shovelling  on  the  earth  as  fast 
as  possible.  I  heard  a  yelp  of  pain  from  the  dog 
and  then  men's  voices  raised  in  anger.  It  was 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy  who  had  inflicted  the  pain,  of 
that  I  felt  certain.  But  I  was  so  completely  un 
strung,  and  a  nausea  so  great  was  upon  me,  that 
my  one  care  was  to  seek  the  shelter  of  my  home :  to 
fling  myself  into  my  mother's  arms,  and  give  my 
quivering  nerves  free  play. 

With  a  cry  I  burst  into  the  salle  basse.  There 
came  an  answering  cry  from  my  mother,  as  she 
rushed  to  meet  me. 

But  I  think  it  was  old  Anne  who  caught  me  in 
her  arms  as  I  fell. 


"And  now,  if  my  darling  will  just  give  herself  up 
into  her  mother's  care  ..." 

These  were  the  words  which  welcomed  me  back 
to  consciousness.  I  knew  they  were  an  appeal  for 
my  confidence,  and  surely  if  ever  a  daughter's  heart 
should  have  been  flung  open  in  response,  it  was 
then;  yet  so  great  was  my  fear  of  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy,  that  mine  remained  closed.  I  dared  not 
even  mention  the  opened  grave  with  the  white  cow 


SILENCE!  51 

within;  although  it  would  have  meant  a  triumph  for 
me,  after  all  the  skepticism  with  which  my  story  of 
the  cart  and  the  dead  cow  had  been  received. 

Andre  du  Quesnoy's  words  kept  ringing  in  my 
ears :  "As  you  see,  a  white  cow,  mademoiselle,"  and 
something  in  the  tone  in  which  they  had  been 
uttered  completely  killed  all  desire  in  me  to  speak 
of  what  I  had  seen.  And,  therefore,  the  sole  re 
sponse  I  made  to  my  mother  was  to  creep  closer  into 
her  sheltering  arms. 

"Now  I  shall  soon  be  well  again,"  I  smiled.  "It 
was  foolish  of  me  to  go  out,  for  I  think  I  must 
have  a  touch  of  influenza." 

"If  it  has  not  wounded  my  daughter's  heart  too 
sorely,  I  can  soon  cure  that,  Jacqueline."  Her 
thoughts  were  evidently  still  running  on  Jean  of  the 
Bellows.  .  .  . 

"My  heart  is  sound  enough,"  I  answered,  and 
strove  to  be  cheerful  to  substantiate  my  words. 

But  I  kept  close  to  the  fire,  and  basked  in  the  love 
my  mother  lavished  upon  me;  for  I  was  being  tor 
tured  by  doubt :  I  felt  it  was  my  duty  to  share  my 
knowledge  of  the  small  thing  I  had  seen  in  the 
grave  with  some  one,  and  yet  my  courage  failed  me. 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy  would  be  certain  to  find  out 
that  the  silence  had  been  broken,  and  then  what? 
But  how  foolish  I  was,  for  if  I  stayed  indoors  he 
could  not  reach  me.  .  .  . 

I  had  arrived  at  this  point  in  my  meditations, 
when  a  shadow  darkened  the  window. 

My  mother  and  old  Anne  were  out  about  the 
farm;  I  was  quite  alone.  Before  I  had  even  time 
to  speculate  as  to  who  it  was  who  had  passed,  the 


52  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

door  was  gently  opened  and  Jacques  du  Quesnoy 
stood  on  the  threshold. 

"I  am  glad  to  find  you  alone,  mademoiselle," 
he  said,  "  but  sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  ill.  You 
were  frightened  on  the  greves — hein?"  And  with 
a  couple  of  strides  he  was  at  my  side  bending  over 
me.  There  was  the  Quesnoy  smile  on  his  lips,  but 
the  fierce  blue  eyes  beat  down  upon  me,  numbing 
my  every  sense.  "You  shrank  from  me,  just  now, 
to  my  brother's  side — why?" 

I  hesitated,  trembling.  Whereupon  he  bent  his 
face  down  until  his  long  moustaches  touched  my 
cheek. 

"Why  did  you  shrink  from  me?  Tell  me — 
girl!" 

"You  looked  so  angry  at  the  interruption,"  I 
murmured,  "and  then 

He  cut  me  short. 

"The  whole  world  could  have  been  there  for  all 
I  should  have  cared!  I  ask  again — why  did  you 
shrink  from  me?" 

"It  was  not  from  you  I  shrank,  monsieur,"  I 
pleaded;  then  on  a  sudden  inspiration:  "it  was 
from  the  smell.  I  never  willingly  enter  a  butcher's 
shop,  because  the  odour  of  the  uncooked  meat 
sickens  me."  And  I  forced  myself  to  shudder  at 
the  mere  thought. 

"A  keen  sense  of  smell,  mademoiselle!  .  .  .  Can 
I  congratulate  you  on  an  equally  keen  sense  of 
sight?" 

In  my  terror  I  learned  to  lie. 

"I  only  wish  you  could,  monsieur!"  I  exclaimed, 
and  desperation  lent  sincerity  to  my  tones. 


SILENCE!  53 

"I  must  ask  madame  your  mother,  then,  why  you 
do  not  wear  glasses,"  said  he,  with  a  reassuring 
smile. 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  I  replied  reproachfully:  "you 
would  not  betray  my  weakness,  surely?  Glasses 
are  so  unbecoming!" 

This  little  touch  of  the  eternal  feminine  seemed 
to  appeal  to  him :  he  laughed,  as  a  boy  might  laugh 
to  have  found  his  opponent  out. 

I  trembled  at  the  danger  I  had  eluded. 

"Come,  come,"  he  smiled,  "don't  flutter,  like  a 
frightened  bird !  .  .  .  No  more  mysteries  to  worry 
your  beautiful  head  about — hein?  No  longer  a 
need  for  you  to  take  your  spade  with  you  when  you 
go  for  a  walk  on  the  grcves."  .  .  . 

Again  I  trembled,  staring  fascinated  into  the 
blaze  of  his  blue  eyes. 

"Don't  alarm  yourself,  child;  I  have  brought  it 
back;  you  will  find  it  in  the  arbour,  ready  for  use 
in  the  garden!  As  for  the  rest,  we  must  meet 
often;  a  little  friendly  chat  each  day,  hein?  .  .  . 
To-morrow  afternoon,  now,  I  shall  be  crossing  the 
greves  at  two  o'clock.  .  .  .  And  you,  madem 
oiselle?" 

"I,  too,  monsieur,"  I  faltered. 

"Then  I  will  say,  a  demain,  mademoiselle.  Of 
course,  not  a  word  of  our  meeting  at  home! 
Silence  is  golden,  is  it  not?" 

"Oh,  yes,  monsieur." 

"Then  we  will  not  break  this  golden  silence. 
Ever.  Au  revoir,  mademoiselle."  And  he  raised 
my  hand  to  his  lips  with  the  true  Quesnoy  courtesy, 
then  strode  to  the  door.  My  mother  entered  at 


54  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

that  very  moment.  He  greeted  her  with  a  charm 
ing  ease.  "Mademoiselle  had  dropped  something 
on  the  greves,  madame,"  he  said:  "and  I  was  for 
tunate  enough  to  find  it.  I  have  just  had  the 
pleasure  of  restoring  it  to  her."  And  declining  my 
mother's  invitation  to  stay  a  little  longer,  he 
departed. 

"I  cannot  understand  how  any  woman  could  leave 
such  a  husband,"  declared  my  mother. 

"Ticns,"  was  my  dry  retort.  "For  my  part,  I 
was  asking  myself  how  any  woman  could  ever  have 
consented  to  live  with  him.  Where  are  your  eyes, 
mother?" 

"Dear  child,  ever  since  you  had  that  unhappy 
nightmare  you  have  disliked  the  man.  Would 
it  not  be  wise  to  combat  such  unfair  prejudices?" 

"Mother! —  I  stopped,  fear  closing  my  lips. 
Was  I  not  to  meet  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  on  the 
morrow?  .  .  . 

My  mother  did  not  notice  my  agitation,  for  she 
was  thinking  of  something  else. 

"What  was  it  you  had  lost  on  the  greves,  Jac 
queline?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  only  my  pencil,"  I  answered  at  random. 

"Then  I  can't  be  too  glad  Monsieur  Jacques 
found  it.  I  should  be  sorely  grieved  were  you  to 
lose  your  father's  pencil."  There  was  a  deep  re 
proach  in  her  tone ;  for  I  had  spoken  with  a  wanton 
carelessness,  that  must  have  hurt  her  loving  heart. 
But  the  truth  was,  I  had  mentioned  the  first  thing 
that  came  to  my  tongue. 

I  tried  to  make  good  my  mistake,  only  to  succeed 
in  making  it  worse.  Rage  and  humiliation  filled 


SILENCE!  55 

me  at  the  untruth  I  had  told.  I  began  to  hate  my 
self  as  much  as  I  hated  Jacques  du  Quesnoy.  Had 
he  not  taught  me  to  fear — to  deceive — to  lie  ?  Had 
he  not  robbed  me  of  my  self-esteem — a  woman's 
all? 

In  my  distraction,  I  tried  to  hint  to  my  mother 
that  there  were  things  I  longed  to  tell  her,  only 
dared  not. 

I  could  not  have  committed  a  greater  blunder; 
for  she  immediately  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  was  something  in  connection  with  Jean  of  the 
Bellows.  And  when  I  indignantly  denied  this  she 
grew  even  more  alarmed  and  whispered  the  name 
of  Jeannette. 

"I  have  already  told  you  that  I  know  no  more 
about  Jeannette's  disappearance  than  you  do,"  I 
cried. 

But  on  the  words  the  blood  rushed  to  my  face, 
and  I  found  myself  unable  to  meet  my  mother's 
eyes. 

"Jacqueline!"  she  implored,  "Jacqueline!" 

I  broke  from  her  restraining  hand  and  dashed 
upstairs  distraught.  I  had  read  suspicion  in  her 
eyes,  and  knew  that  when  next  we  met  she  would 
fear  to  meet  my  own.  I  felt  myself  to  be  flounder 
ing  in  a  hideous  darkness,  nor  could  I  discover  a 
single  ray  of  light. 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock;  I  fell  to  pacing  my 
bedroom. 

To  whom  should  I  turn  in  my  extremity  ?  Were 
Jean  at  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm  I  should  not  hesitate 
to  send  for  him. 

And   then   I    remembered   all   the   kindness   the 


56  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Marquise  du  Quesnoy  had  always  lavished  upon  me. 
How  often  had  she  not  assured  me  that,  if  I  were 
ever  in  need  of  a  friend,  I  should  find  one  in  her. 

I  would  take  her  at  her  word. 

Hastily  I  put  on  my  hat  and  coat. 

At  the  head  of  the  staircase  I  paused  to  listen. 
My  mother  and  Anne  were  talking  in  the  salle  basse. 
Now  was  my  opportunity.  I  ran  softly  down 
stairs  and  outside.  Then  with  all  possible  speed 
I  set  off  for  Littremont. 

What  a  multitude  of  thoughts  and  fears  beset  me 
as  I  went. 

I  had  lost  my  mother's  confidence ;  nor  dare  I  win 
it  back  again  by  telling  her  everything,  because  on 
the  morrow  I  must  meet  Jacques  du  Quesnoy. 

It  was  no  use  assuring  myself  that  it  rested  with 
me  whether  I  met  him  or  not.  I  knew  it  was  beyond 
my  power  to  resist  him.  Go  I  must,  and  would. 

Oh,  to  have  Jean  Bienvenu  within  call !  To  see 
his  eyes  light  up  in  sympathy ;  to  feel  his  hand  grasp 
mine  in  quick  protection. 

"Jean,  Jean,  where  are  you  all  this  weary  while? 
Not  with  poor  Jeannette,  as  slanderous  people  say. 
Oh,  no,  Jeannette  is  alone — in  the  grave  one  is 
always  alone.  Poor,  beautiful  Jeannette,  how 
heavy  the  earth  must  press  upon  her!  .  .  .  And 
yet  I  think  there  is  a  weight  as  heavy  pressing  upon 
my  own  heart."  .  .  . 

At  length  I  reached  the  town,  tired  and  nerv 
ous.  In  what  spirit  would  the  marquise  receive  my 
message  ? 

I  entered  the  post  office,  and  taking  out  a  tele 
graph  form,  began  to  write : — 


SILENCE!  57 

"Come  to  me  if  possible,  needing  help  sorely, 
Jacqueline" 

Was  it  not  a  too  audacious  message  to  send? 
However, — as  it  stood,  so  it  must  go:  I  could 
think  of  none  other.  So,  with  sudden  resolution,  I 
turned  to  hand  in  the  form,  and  met  the  eyes  of 
Andre  du  Quesnoy.  They  were  resting  upon  me, 
with  an  intentness  that  covered  me  with  confusion. 

Had  he  divined  what  I  had  written?  In  any 
other  man  I  might  have  said — had  he  taken  a  peep 
over  my  shoulder  ? 

He  greeted  me  with  his  customary  dry  courtesy. 
And  I  could  not  fail  to  notice  how  careworn  he 
looked. 

For  an  instant,  as  we  thus  gazed  into  each  other's 
eyes,  I  had  a  quick  impulse  to  confide  in  him.  He 
was  so  strong,  so  self-reliant,  and  yet,  as  on  a  brain 
wave,  I  knew  that  he  suffered  from  some  inward 
trouble,  even  as  I  was  suffering  myself. 

But  the  impulse  passed,  and  I  hurried  from  the 
post  office. 

All  the  way  home  his  face  haunted  me.  What 
went  on  down  at  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm  to  trace 
such  deep  lines  of  care?  Did  he  suspect  his 
brother?  He  must  mark  the  wildness  in  his  eyes, 
the  savagery  of  his  bearing.  And  those  great 
hands,  had  Andre  noticed  the  dreadful  gesture? 
Was  I,  in  all  the  wide  world,  the  only  one  that 
guessed — nay,  felt  certain — what  manner  of  man  he 
was?  .  .  . 

And  then  I  fell  to  thinking,  hoping,  praying,  that 
the  marquise  would  not  be  offended  at  the  telegram 
I  had  sent  her,  but  would  respond  at  once. 


58  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

I  pulled  myself  up  sharply  upon  the  terrifying 
thought,  that  if  I  allowed  my  brain  to  dwell  too 
much  upon  any  subject,  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  would 
read  it. 

And  I  was  to  meet  him  on  the  morrow.  .  .  . 
Mechanically  I  put  my  hand  to  my  throat,  gasping, 

When  I  reached  home  it  was  long  past  the  din 
ner-hour. 

I  found  my  mother  in  the  salle  basse,  sewing. 

She  looked  up  at  my  entry,  and  I  saw  that  her 
eyelids  were  red.  I  frowned,  anger  and  sorrow  at 
work  within  me  at  the  self -same  moment.  .  .  . 

Why  should  she  weep?  She  had  only  to  trust 
me. 

"You  have  been  out,  Jacqueline?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"You  have  been  gone  a  long  while." 

"I  was  trying  to  get  rid  of  a  splitting  headache." 

"Did  you  walk  far?" 

"To  Littremont." 

"Tiens!  You  went  to  the  chemist's  no  doubt, 
for  the  cachets  that  do  your  head  so  much  good." 

"Yes,"  I  muttered;  and  turned  my  face  aside. 

She  did  not  believe  me.  A  woman  of  strong 
character  and  will  would  have  had  it  out  with  me 
then  and  there.  But  my  mother's  nature  was  at 
once  too  gentle  and  too  senstive.  She  suffered 
and  endured  in  silence,  always. 

I  left  the  salle  basse  in  a  storm  against  Fate,  and 
every  one  in  general. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  I  avoided  my  mother  as 
much  as  possible;  the  growing  anxiety  on  the 
patient  face  tortured  me. 


SILENCE!  59 

And  when  at  last  the  day  was  done,  and  I  could 
seek  my  bed,  it  was  to  toss  restless  through  the  long 
hours,  or,  falling  into  fitful  slumber,  to  dream  of 
the  Leper  of  the  Cross,  who  was  none  other  than 
Jacques  du  Quesnoy. 

Once  I  awoke  with  so  shrill  a  cry  that  my  mother 
rushed  from  her  room. 

And  then  in  the  shelter  of  her  arms,  I  found 
rest  at  last  .  .  .  But  I  still  kept  silent. 


CHAPTER  V 

FATE    THE    SURGEON 

1 

MY  first  thought  on  awaking,  was  that  I  must 
meet  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  that  afternoon:  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy,  who  had  become  the  leper  of  the 
greves  in  my  eyes.  I  shuddered  in  an  agony  of 
apprehension. 

"Are  you  awake,  Jacqueline?  You  slept  well,  my 
child,  once  your  eyelids  closed.  What  did  you 
see,  ma  mignonne,  that  made  you  stare  so  wide- 
eyed  into  the  darkest  shadows  in  the  room  last 
night?" 

I  looked  up  into  the  tender  eyes  of  my  mother, 
as,  leaning  on  her  elbow,  she  bent  over  me.  But 
I  answered  her  question  with  another. 

"And  you,  have  you  rested  well?"  I  asked. 

She  smiled,  her  beautiful  mother-smile. 

"I  rested  in  seeing  you  rest,"  she  replied. 

"Which  means,"  I  frowned  impatiently,  "that 
you  never  closed  an  eye  all  night.  You  are  always 
sacrificing  yourself,  mother :  I  wish  you  wouldn't. 
Be  selfish,  and  let  others  have  a  chance  of  being 
self-denying." 

"That  is  a  mother's  privilege,"  she  smiled. 

"Or  a  wife's,"  I  retorted  quickly:  and  then  felt 
60 


FATE  THE  SURGEON  61 

both  repentant  and  indignant  at  her  look  of  re 
proach. 

She  stroked  the  furrow  from  between  my  eye 
brows,  as  I  had  seen  her  do  to  my  father  many  a 
time.  The  frown  had  come  as  readily  to  his  brow 
as  to  mine :  and  the  same  gentle  fingers  tried  al 
ways  to  smooth  it  away. 

"Would  you  like  to  talk  to  me  a  little  while?" 
she  asked.  "When  a  child,  dear,  you  used  to  pillow 
your  head  upon  my  breast  and  tell  me  all  your  woes 
— that  is  the  mother's  recompense  for  the  pains  of 
motherhood." 

I  did  not  remind  her  of  the  time  when  her  hus 
band  came  before  her  child,  and  when  it  was  to  old 
Anne  I  would  turn. 

"It  would  be  too  great  a  tax  upon  my  imagina 
tion,"  I  laughed.  "A  child's  woes  are  so  easily 
conjured  up — full  grown  on  the  instant!  And  we 
should  have  old  Anne,  too,  asking  how  much  longer 
we  were  going  to  stop  in  bed.  Listen,  mother,  you 
stay  quietly  here  and  let  me  wait  upon  you."  I 
knew  this  to  be  the  last  thing  she  would  consent  to, 
and  it  was  certainly  the  last  thing  I  desired,  for  my 
mother  in  bed  meant  my  being  at  her  bedside. 
And  how  could  I  sit  silent  or  speak  of  trivial  mat 
ters  with  her  eyes  questioning  me  all  the  time  ? 

She  sighed. 

"Then  you  will  not  give  me  your  confidence,  Jac 
queline?  What  have  I  done  to  forfeit  it?" 

"How  can  I  give  you  what  you  already  possess?" 
I  ejaculated,  springing  up  in  bed.  And  her  eyes 
answered,  "Why  do  you  lie  to  me?"  They  were 
braver  than  her  lips,  which  uttered  no  word  as  she 


62  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

rose  from  off  my  bed  and  left  the  room,  closing  the 
door  gently.  And  again  I  remembered  many  a 
scene  of  a  similar  kind  between  my  father  and 
mother:  he  angry  and  impatient,  she  gentle  and 
long-suffering.  I  had  his  temper,  his  spirit — then 
why  was  I  what  I  was  in  the  presence  of  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy?  I  clenched  my  teeth  in  a  passion  of 
impotent  anger.  Where  he  was  concerned,  my 
mother's  timid,  yielding  spirit  seemed  to  enter  into 
me,  driving  out  the  indomitable  Montviron  charac 
ter.  A  few  feeble  tears  welled  up  into  my  eyes, 
filling  me  with  a  loathing  of  myself.  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy  had  said :  "We  will  meet  on  the  greves  to 
morrow  afternoon,"  and  I  knew  that  I  would  keep 
the  tryst.  .  .  I  knew  it  by  my  tingling  nerves,  for 
when  Fear  is  the  driver,  one  must  go  where  the 
reins  guide.  .  .  . 

I  bolted  the  door,  and  then  went  to  the  mirror 
and  examined  myself.  It  struck  me  that  my  face 
was  changing.  Was  there  something  of  the  sav 
age  cunning  of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  in  my  eyes? 
Yes,  I  hated  myself  as  much  as  I  hated  him.  And 
yet  that  very  afternoon  I  dressed  myself  with  care 
before  going  to  meet  him  on  the  greves. 

How  explain  this  trait  in  a  woman's  character? 
I  cannot:  it  is  there,  that  is  all  I  know.  We  may 
hate  and  despise  and  fear;  tremble  at  the  very 
admiration  we  excite;  but  we  would  not  detract  by 
a  hair  from  the  beauty  or  the  charm  which  excites 
that  admiration. 

Not  that  I  believed  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  admired 
me :  he  feared  me,  as  I  feared  him.  But  since  he 
must  have  me  near  him,  this  woman's  trait  in  me 


FATE  THE  SURGEON  63 

forbade  my  going  in  anything  less  than  all  the 
beauty  that  was  mine. 

Old  Anne  opened  wide  her  eyes  when  she  saw  me. 

"One  would  say,"  said  she,  "that  mademoiselle 
was  going  to  meet  her  fiance." 

I  turned  on  her  like  a  wild  cat,  the  burning  blood 
in  my  cheeks.  She  had  rendered  me  yet  more 
hateful  in  my  own  eyes. 

"Anne,  learn  to  control  your  tongue,"  cried  my 
mother  in  dismay.  "And  you,  Jacqueline,  learn 
to  be  more  forbearing,  my  child." 

"Was  ever  a  Montviron  forbearing?"  jeered  old 
Anne.  "  'Tis  her  father  she  is,  madame :  a  chip 
of  the  old  block." 

I  left  the  house,  banging  the  doors  behind  me. 
But  in  glancing  back  I  saw  my  mother  and  old 
Anne  watching  me  through  the  window  of  the 
salle  basse.  Were  they  both  beginning  to  watch 
me  now — and  as  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  watched  me? 
I  could  have  turned  and  shrieked  my  defiance  in 
their  faces,  I  was  so  full  of  despair  and  rage.  And 
the  thought  of  the  telegram  I  had  sent  to  the  Mar 
quise  du  Quesnoy,  far  from  being  a  comfort, 
weighed  like  lead  on  my  mind.  I  had  only  laid 
myself  open  to  humiliation.  What  was  I  to  Claire 
du  Quesnoy  that  she  should  come  rushing  back 
from  Brussels  because  I  was  in  trouble  ?  And  then 
a  fresh  thought  came  to  harass  me.  The  telegram, 
if  she  deigned  to  send  one,  would  come  to  the 
manor  farm,  and  be  opened  by  my  mother.  My 
mind  was  made  up  on  the  instant.  I  ran  back  to 
the  house,  and  flung  open  the  door  of  the  salle 
basse. 


64  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"I  am  going  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  Littremont 
with  my  friend,  Marie,"  I  said. 

"I  never  knew  she  had  invited  you,"  replied  my 
mother  in  surprise.  "Did  you  see  her  yesterday 
when  you  were  up  there?" 

"Have  you  any  objection  to  my  going?"  was  my 
evasive  answer. 

"I  would  have  no  objection  to  boxing  your  ears," 
snapped  old  Anne,  exasperated. 

"Tiens?"  I  laughed.  "A  forbidden  pleasure  that, 
Anne,  since  I  left  my  childhood  behind  me,"  and  I 
was  gone  before  another  word  could  be  spoken. 


All  the  way  to  the  greves  I  wiped  the  tears  that 
would  rise  in  my  eyes.  What  network  of  decep 
tion  and  intrigue  was  I  not  weaving  round  myself? 

I  was  roused  from  my  dull  misery  to  a  more 
acute  form  by  the  voice  of  Jacques  du  Quesnoy : 
up  he  leaped  from  a  bank  where  he  had  been  sitting, 
and  set  my  every  nerve  atingle  at  the  first  words 
he  uttered : — 

"You  and  I,  mademoiselle,  must  row  in  the  same 
boat,  otherwise  it  will  capsize,"  he  said,  pacing  his 
step  to  mine.  "I  will  teach  you  how  to  use  the 
oars."  And  I  knew  that  it  was  of  the  boat  of  life 
he  spoke. 

"Monsieur,"  I  stammered,  "you  and  I  were  never 
meant  for  the  same  boat." 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"Since  you  would  thrust  your  oars  into  my  seas, 
mademoiselle,  you  must  row  with  me.  ...  A 


FATE  THE  SURGEON  65 

woman's  prying  eyes  lead  her  where  she  least  ex 
pects  sometimes." 

"Monsieur,"  I  protested,  "my  eyes  have  never 
pried— I- 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"I  have  had  enough  of  a  woman's  everlasting  pre 
varication!"  he  burst  out.  "You  know  what  I 
know,  and  therefore  you  must  be  one  with  me. 
Come,  shall  we  visit  the  leper-house?  The  place 
holds  no  fears  for  you.  I  have  traced  your  little 
footprints  to  the  spot."  And  he  laughed  harshly. 
"Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  where  you  hid,  hein?" 
He  stared  into  my  face  and  I  shrank  as  if  he  had 
struck  me. 

We  walked  on  in  silence,  side  by  side.  I  asked 
myself  if  it  were  possible  that  I  was  really  Jacque 
line  Lolif.  Only,  last  week,  day  had  followed  day, 
unbroken  by  a  single  stirring  event ;  and  now !  .  .  . 

I  felt  his  gaze  upon  me,  and  turned  to  meet  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  the  seconds  that  hold  the 
tragedies,  it  is  not  the  days.  You  were  asking 
yourself  how  we  came  to  be  walking  together  like 
this — how  we  had  come  together  as  we  have  come 
— as  we  must  remain — together  .  .  .  together  for 
always." 

I  shuddered,  contemplating  an  unending  vista  of 
days,  each  one  darkened  by  the  presence  of  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy. 

"Not  of  our  choice,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  as  if 
in  response  to  my  thoughts,  "but  brought  together 
by  the  tragedy  of  the  seconds — the  seconds  that 
make  or  mar.  If  you  had  not  looked  out  of  your 
window  that  night — hein?  ...  If  I  had  not— 


66  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

He  caught  his  breath  in  what  sounded  like  a  sigh, 
that  was  wrung  from  his  very  soul.  Was  there, 
perhaps,  still  a  soul  somewhere  in  that  giant  body, 
a  soul  that  could  plead  for  me  ? 

Together  we  entered  the  leper-house. 

"Where  did  you  hide?"  he  asked.  And  I 
answered  without  hesitation, — 

"In  the  tower." 

"Tiensl  Yet  I  looked  for  you  there,"  and  his 
fierce  eyes  blazed  down  upon  me. 

"Behind  the  door,"  I  added  quickly;  "you 
crushed  me  as  you  entered."  .  .  . 

"Symbolical !"  he  ejaculated,  on  a  burst  of 
laughter.  "But  enter,  enter,  mademoiselle ;  we  will 
talk  together  in  that  old  tower,  where  once  you  hid 
from  me.  .  .  .  And  I  will  not  crush  you  again — 
if  you  do  not  stand  in  my  path." 

My  trembling  footsteps  climbed  the  crumbling 
stairway.  And  behind  me  came  Jacques  du  Ques- 
noy,  mortar  and  stones  falling  at  every  step. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said;  and  we  sat  together  on  the 
worm-eaten  bench,  where  I  used  to  dream  my 
dreams  of  Jean  of  the  Bellows.  I  found  myself 
putting  all  that  time  behind  me,  as  though  it  had 
been  in  another  life.  I  was  breaking,  already 
bowed,  beneath  the  yoke  of  the  man  beside  me. 

"Do  not  tremble,  mademoiselle,"  he  added.  "You 
and  I  must  be  friends,  and — something  more." 
The  last  words  were  the  merest  whisper,  as  he  bent 
towards  me.  "What  would  you  do  without  me 
now,  you  who  wait  upon  my  every  word?  The 
woman  who  fears  a  man  obeys  him,  mademoiselle : 
and  with  obedience  comes  peace,  and  peace  means 


FATE  THE  SURGEON  67 

happiness.  Do  you  comprehend,  child?  Good. 
Do  not  tremble,  then,  when  you  look  into  the  future. 
.  .  .  Regret  your  woman's  curiosity  if  you  will — 
that  will  only  teach  you  to  control  it." 

I  felt  sick  and  giddy,  as  if  gazing  down  a 
fathomless  pit  into  which  I  must  ultimately  fall. 

Out  there  where  the  water  reflected  the  blue  of 
the  sky,  I  saw  the  white  seagulls  float.  The  wind 
was  not  cold  as  it  fanned  my  cheeks,  and  yet  I  had 
to  clench  my  teeth  to  keep  them  from  chattering. 

"My  wife  has  disappeared,"  spoke  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy.  "She  is  dead.  Do  you  not  think  so, 
mademoiselle  ?" 

"Oui,  monsieur,"  I  answered. 

He  stared. 

"Tiens!  you  speak  with  conviction." 

"Mais  oui,  monsieur.  Have  you  not  said  that 
she  was  dead?" 

"You  thought  it  before  I  spoke  1" 

I  cowered  back  against  the  parapet. 

He  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"Darnel  we  are  one  in  thought  already,  made 
moiselle.  Yes,  my  wife  is  dead.  .  .  .  lost  on  those 
trackless  wastes  of  sand."  .  .  . 

My  heart  throbbed  as  I  thought  of  the  grave  out 
there,  that  had  seemed  to  call  to  me  of  desertion. 
True,  I  had  seen  with  my  own  eyes  that  it  held  a 
dead  animal — and  that  small  thing  besides,  that 
trifling  necessary  thing.  ...  I  put  my  hand  to  my 
head;  my  brain  seemed  ready  to  burst. 

"She  and  I,"  he  went  on,  "never  understood  each 
other  as  you  and  I  do,  mademoiselle.  And  with 
out  this  perfect  understanding,  love  cannot—  He 


68 

broke  off,  his  face  contorted  with  pain.  And  I  re 
membered  the  stories  I  had  heard,  of  his  passionate 
love  for  Jeannette.  The  remembrance  gave  me  hope. 

"She  used  to  say,"  he  continued,  "that  I  was  out 
of  drawing,  my  spirit  being  many  sizes  too  small 
to  fill  my  body  .  .  ."  And  he  flung  up  his  hands, 
as  if  surrendering  to  the  charge.  .  .  . 

"Monsieur,"  I  began,  "  if  you  think  I  know  too 
much  .  .  .  oh,  I  swear  I  can  forget !  I  will  never 

•  I  ended  with  a  sharp  scream  of  terror,  his 
face  was  so  terrible. 

"Know  too  much !"  he  shouted :  "  so  you  admit 
you  know  too  much — silence !  I  hate  a  screaming 
woman  ...  I  could  catch  her  ..." 

But  here,  mercifully,  a  wave  of  darkness  washed 
over  me,  and  drowned  the  remaining  words.  .  .  . 

I  was  leaning  against  his  shoulder  when  next  I 
heard  his  voice.  "I  am  too  rough  for  you,  made 
moiselle,"  he  was  saying  gently.  "It  is  the  strain 
of  the  last  days  that  has  told  upon  me.  Too  short 
a  time  to  work  such  a  change,  you  say.  Ecoutes! 
.  .  .  When  the  patient  is  laid  on  the  operating 
table  he  is  a  whole  man;  when  'he  leaves  it,  some 
limb,  some  part  of  him  is  missing  .  .  .  something 
that  had  been  himself  and  without  which  he  is  in 
complete,  and  yet,  how  long  do  you  think  the  actual 
cutting  away  had  taken?  .  .  .  one  minute?  .  .  . 
two?  .  .  .  And  when  Fate  is  the  surgeon — nom  de 
Dieu!  .  .  ."  He  pushed  me  from  him,  with  a 
brusque  movement,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

And  with  his  despair,  hope  crept  up  to  me  again, 
and  I  whispered:  "Jeannette." 


FATE  THE  SURGEON  69 

Little  fool  that  I  was,  had  I  imagined  that  her 
name  would  recall  him  to  his  better  self,  make  him 
realise  that  there  could  be  only  Jeannette  for  him, 
and  never  another  woman?  Far  from  it,  the 
name  awoke  a  veritable  devil  in  him.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet,  shouting  :— - 

"Jeannette?  .  .  .  Jeannette  is  dead!  It  is  with 
the  living  I  would  live,  and  not  with  the  dead !  .  .  . 
Remember,  you  belong  to  me,  by  reason  of  your 
prying  eyes — your  quick  woman's  instinct.  .  .  . 
Don't  stare  at  me!  You  will  never  comprehend. 
.  .  .  There  is  no  need  that  you  should.  You  have 
made  yourself  necessary  to  me :  let  that  suffice.  .  .  . 
And  do  not  break  the  silence,  or — 

I  rose  and  stood  beside  him :  and  his  great 
hands  slipped  up  my  arms,  and  the  strong  fingers 
overlapped  about  my  throat.  Thus  we  stood 
and  stared  into  each  other's  eyes.  And  those 
fleeing  seconds  were  as  years  of  knowledge  to 
me.  .  .  . 

He  flung  away  from  me  towards  the  crumbling 
staircase — pausing  only  to  say : — 

"Is  it  a  demain,  mademoiselle?" 

And  I  answered : — "a  demain,  monsieur." 

From  the  tower  I  watched  his  giant  form  grow 
less  and  less  over  the  stretches  of  sand  and  short 
green  grass.  And  then  a  cry  burst  from  my  lips 
again  and  again. 

"Jean!      Jean!      Jean!" 

With  the  cry  awoke  the  memory  of  the  telegram, 
which  might  be  on  its  way  to  me.  I  jumped  up 
and  ran  down  the  stairs,  and,  as  fast  as  I  could  go, 
sped  on  my  way  to  Littremont. 


70  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

On  reaching  the  post  office,  I  collided  with  the 
telegraph  boy,  who  was  coming  out. 

"Is  there  a  telegram  for  me?"  I  asked. 

"Mademoiselle  Lolif  ?"  he  returned. 

"Yes,  I  am  Mademoiselle  Lolif,"  I  replied,  and 
took  the  telegram  he  gave,  and  read : — 

"Expect  me  by  the  afternoon  train  to-morrow. 
"Claire  du  Quesnoy." 

In  my  surprise  I  clutched  at  the  door  for  support. 
She  was  coming:  I  would  have  some  one  to  lean 
upon,  some  one  to  confide  in.  But  dare  I  tell  her 
all?  And  in  telling  her,  should  I  not  be  breaking 
the  silence?  .  .  .  Yes,  but  Jacques  du  Quesnoy 
would  never  suspect  that  in  the  marquise  I  would 
find  a  confidante.  Had  it  been  Jean  who  was  re 
turning  he  might  have  grown  suspicious.  And  I 
would  be  careful  what  I  said :  I  would  learn  to  be 
cunning,  as  he  was  himself,  and  cruel  too,  if  nec 
essary.  It  must  be  my  nature  to  be  cruel,  else  could 
I  have  treated  my  mother  and  old  Anne  as  I  had? 

I  walked  slowly  home,  wondering  why  the  tele 
gram  had  brought  me  so  little  hope.  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy  had  claimed  me:  I  felt  myself  to  be  his. 
To-morrow  I  would  see  him  again :  and  what 
promise  might  he  not  wring  from  me? 

It  was  evening  before  I  reached  the  manor  farm. 

"I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  your  visit,  Jacqueline," 
said  my  mother. 

"Did  you  find  your  friend  in?"  asked  old  Anne, 
by  which  question  I  knew  that  she  had  not  believed 
my  story  about  spending  the  afternoon  with  Marie. 


FATE  THE  SURGEON  71 

"When  shall  I  find  you  out,  Anne?"  was  my 
answer;  "it  would  be  a  relief." 

"When  I  have  found  you  out,  mademoiselle 
Jacqueline,"  she  retorted,  with  a  significance  that 
sent  the  tell-tale  blood  to  my  cheeks. 

I  looked  at  her.  How  quick-witted  she  was! 
If  only  I  might  confide  in  her,  she  might  be  able  to 
help  me.  She  followed  me  upstairs. 

"Ma  mignonne"  she  whispered:  "tell  your  old 
bonne  all  about  it.  She 

I  broke  in  upon  her  pleading : — 

"Hush!"  I  whispered  back,  "I  dare  not  .  .  . 
not  yet.  Trust  me,  Anne !"  and  I  choked  back  the 
rising  sobs. 

Her  shrewd  eyes  rested  upon  me  thoughtfully; 
then  she  nodded,  and  went  to  fetch  me  a  cup  of 
strong  coffee  and  a  liqueur-glass  of  white  cognac. 

When  night  came  I  regretted  my  half  confidence 
in  her.  I  regretted  my  telegram  to  the  marquise. 
It  was  the  simplest  to  let  myself  drift  in  the  boat  I 
must  share  with  Jacques  du  Quesnoy. 


Anne  was  in  a  bad  temper  the  next  morning. 
What  had  upset  the  old  woman  I  only  vaguely 
gathered  from  the  end  of  a  conversation  between 
her  and  Auguste,  who  drove  his  point  home  by  call 
ing  her  a  "vieille  vache,"  whereupon  their  voices 
reached  a  pitch  that  forced  me  to  raise  mine  to  its 
top  note  before  I  could  make  myself  heard. 

I  had  spent  a  wretched  night,  tortured  by  the  rec 
ollection  of  my  interview  with  Jacques  du  Quesnoy : 


72  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

asking  myself  a  thousand  questions,  which  I  dared 
not  answer.  My  mother  had  implored  me  to  sleep 
with  her,  but  this  I  refused  to  do,  thereby  complet 
ing  her  uneasiness  about  me.  She  could  not  meet 
my  eyes,  and  when  I  kissed  her  good-morning  she 
looked  into  the  coffee-pot. 

"Tiens!  is  the  coffee-pot  in  a  bad  temper  like  the 
rest  of  us?"  I  asked,  with  a  glance  at  Anne,  who 
retorted  sarcastically : — 

"Did  mademoiselle  think  she  had  the  mon 
opoly?" 

"Darnel  I  couldn't  flatter  myself  to  that  extent 
after  hearing  you  and  Auguste,"  was  my  teasing 
reply. 

"A  pity  you  don't  stay  and  hear  a  little  more  in 
stead  of  gallivanting  up  to  Littremont  so  often," 
she  retaliated. 

"I  don't  permit  impertinence  from  a  domestic," 
I  said  in  my  ultra-Montviron  tone. 

"Brave  words,  mademoiselle,"  she  grunted,  "but 
they  carry  no  weight  with  me — now,  don't  be  get 
ting  into  a  state,  madame,  she  will  calm  down :  first 
the  froth  and  then  the  cider.  It  is  the  same  thing 
with  words." 

"You  ugly  old  woman!"  I  cried,  furious,  "there 
is  no  cider  left  in  your  dried-up  frame!" 

My  mother  laid  her  hand  on  my  lips. 

"You  will  be  sorry  for  this,  Jacqueline,"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"Not  I,"  I  retorted  defiantly,  "if  Anne  forgets 
her  manners  it  is  no  reason  why  we  should  forget 
that  she  has  forgotten  them." 

A   chuckle    from   the   doorway   into   the    back- 


FATE  THE  SURGEON  73 

kitchen  made  us  aware  of  Auguste's  presence.  I 
felt  sorry  then  to  have  insulted  old  Anne  before 
her  enemy  of  half  an  hour  ago.  But,  as  is  unhap 
pily  always  the  way  with  me,  my  sorrow  was  cou 
pled  with  an  equal  amount  of  anger.  My  wracked 
nerves  could  bear  no  more.  I  sprang  to  my  feet, 
knocking  over  my  chair,  and  dashed  from  the  salle 
basse,  and  out  into  the  garden.  .  .  . 

Bareheaded,  I  ran  for  shelter  to  the  arbour,  and 
there  fell  right  into  the  arms  of  Jacques  du  Ques- 
noy.  He  was  dressed  in  deepest  mourning;  and, 
as  he  held  me  close,  he  whispered  words  that  stilled 
the  mad  beating  of  my  heart,  as  an  airman,  falling 
headlong  through  space,  must  have  the  throbs  of 
agony  stilled  in  sudden  annihilation. 


PART  II 
THE  CROSS-SCENTS 

(Told  by  Andre,  Comte  du  Quesnoy) 


75 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP 
1 

I  AM  now  nearing  the  end  of  my  investigations : 
another  link  and  the  change  of  evidence  will  be  com 
plete,  a  chain  strong  enough  to  hang  a  man  with. 
...  It  is  high  time,  however,  to  search  my  own 
conscience  before  proceeding.  .  .  .  Come,  how  far 
am  I  personally  to  blame?  .  .  .  First,  I  sought  a 
solution  of  the  cause  of  it  all  at  the  wrong  end  of 
the  trouble.  I  should  have  watched  the  woman, 
and  left  the  man  to  cool  his  heels  in  expectation  of 
her  going  to  him.  Instead,  I  endeavoured  to  come 
to  grips  with  the  man,  and  allowed  her  emotions  to 
prey  upon  the  woman.  Why  was  this?  Was  it 
not  a  betrayal  of  our  hearth  and  home,  to  the  call 
of  a  master-passion  of  my  own?  Had  I  been  weak 
in  the  wrist,  for  example,  would  I  then  have  seized 
the  opportunity  of  settling  accounts  with  the  man, 
by  displaying  my  skill  with  the  rapier?  .  .  .  Next, 
did  I  not  let  a  mere  hobby  intervene  at  what  sub 
sequently  proved  to  be  the  crucial  moment  in  the 
lives  of  those  I  loved,  thus  prolonging  my  absence 
from  home,  and  abandoning  to  their  fates  both 
husband  and  wife?  .  .  .  Last  of  all,  may  not  my 
past  feelings  of  misprized  love  have  obscured  my 

77 


78  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

judgment,  and  even  egged  me  on  to  commit  the 
folly  of  dilly-dallying?  .  .  .  Who  can  tell!  .  .  . 
Let  the  survivors  judge,  and  mete  out  to  me  my 
share  of  the  responsibility.  .  .  . 


True  it  is,  at  any  rate,  that  my  mind  had  been 
divided  from  the  first.  Keen  as  I  undoubtedly  was 
to  measure  swords  with  my  kinsman,  Gerard,  Mar 
quis  du  Quesnoy,  I  was  none  the  less  loath  to  leave 
Jeannette,  and  Jacques,  and  Jean  to  their  own  de 
vices.  For  one  thing,  Jacques,  my  younger 
brother,  a  passionate  giant  of  a  man,  had  been 
struggling  to  control  his  jealousy  for  days ;  for  an 
other,  Jeannette,  his  wife,  had  been  countering  with 
a  smile  that  would  have  hoodwinked  any  one,  save 
the  wary  watcher  that  I  am,  coupled  with  a  voice 
toned  to  win  its  way  against  the  rising  suspicions 
of  her  headstrong  husband;  while  the  foundling, 
Jean  of  the  Bellows,  would  meanwhile  do  his  ut 
most  to  fan  the  merest  flicker  into  a  blaze :  in  Jean 
nette  a  flickering  fancy  for  his  debonair  self;  in 
Jacques,  a  smouldering  mistrust  of  his  own  loyalty, 
and  this  (incorrigible  psychologist  that  he  was) 
for  the  sheer  enjoyment  he  took  in  studying  the 
consequence  of  his  every  action.  .  .  .  Yes,  all  these 
things  considered,  it  was  certainly  running  a  tre 
mendous  risk  to  leave  all  three  of  them  to  their 
fates  on  that  bitter  morning.  .  .  . 

However,  I  concluded  that  I  had  no  choice  but 
to  hazard  all.  There  was  a  more  formidable  lover 
than  Jean  of  the  Bellows,  and  surely  he  should 
claim  my  first  attention?  To  put  him  out  of 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  79 

action,  as  the  more  dangerous  of  the  two,  then  ap 
peared  my  bounden  duty.  No  calf-love  his  for 
Jeannette;  no  flickering  fancy  hers  for  Gerard  du 
Quesnoy,  lording  it  over  a  score  of  tennants  in  the 
chateau  of  my  ancestors,  up  there  on  the  crest  of  the 
M.  Hill.  A  heart  to  heart  love  affair,  this  :  straining 
the  marriage  bonds,  separating  the  lovers  until  they 
threatened  to  snap. 

Let  it  never  be  forgotten  that  I  am  the  head  of 
the  upper  branch  of  the  family,  although  I  am  only 
a  comte  by  courtesy,  and  Gerard  can  trace  back 
his  marquisate  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  thanks  to 
a  mercenary  transaction  on  the  part  of  his  great 
grandfather.  For  the  chateau  du  Quesnoy,  as  well 
as  the  chateau  des  A j  ones,  confiscated  to  the  State 
by  the  First  Republic,  had  been  restored  to  the 
cadet  branch  in  return  for  its  allegiance  to  the 
First  Empire.  Thus  it  comes  about  that  Ger 
ard,  Marquis  du  Quesnoy,  lives  luxurious  days  in 
my  ancestral  halls,  while  Jacques  and  I  live  hum 
bly  at  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm,  dispossessed,  discred 
ited,  and  disowned  by  our  cousin  on  the  lower 
branch  of  the  family  tree. 

This  injustice  I  was  now  determined  to  turn  to 
our  own  advantage,  by  using  it  as  a  cloak  for  chal 
lenging  Gerard  to  a  duel.  It  would  never  do  to 
allow  the  true  cause  to  appear ;  at  all  costs  my  sister- 
in-law's  good  name  must  be  shielded  from  any 
such  suspicion.  So  off  I  drove  to  the  chateau  du 
Quesnoy  in  my  dogcart,  my  mind  divided  between 
the  anxiety  I  felt  for  those  I  was  leaving  at  our 
homely  hearth,  and  my  eagerness  to  put  their 
fortunes  to  the  arbitrament  of  my  tempered  blade. 


80  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

With  a  set  face  I  sped  up  the  chestnut  avenue, 
to  the  front  door  perron,  with  the  double  flight  of 
steps  between  drive  and  rosary;  only  to  find,  upon 
ringing  at  the  bell,  that  the  chateau  du  Quesnoy  was 
deserted.  And  there  I  chafed,  its  rightful  owner, 
kicking  my  heels  at  the  great  doors  of  oak,  cheated 
of  my  vengeance,  as  my  great-grandfather  had  been 
stripped  of  the  vast  lands  which  stretched  before 
me,  over  hill  and  dale,  to  the  Bay  of  Mont  Merveille 
a  la  Merci  des  Flots.  In  my  bitter  disappointment, 
my  brother  Jacques,  and  even  my  sister-in-law 
Jeannette,  slipped,  I  now  admit,  clean  out  of  my 
mind,  so  absolutely  equal  to  my  concern  for  them 
had  been  my  zest  to  bring  my  kinsman  to  book  on 
my  own  account. 

Without  loss  of  time  I  drove  round  at  once  to  the 
home  farm  in  order  to  question  the  bailiff.  In 
answer  to  my  inquiries,  he  informed  me  that  his 
master  had  left  for  Russia  on  the  previous  morning, 
and  his  mistress  for  Brussels  in  her  car,  accompa 
nied  by  the  Viscomte  Leon  de  Tesson.  "As  for  the 
servants,"  he  added:  "they  have  been  put  on 
board  wages  for  a  month — and  as  monsieur  is 
doubtless  aware,  there  is  a  great  number  of  them." 

The  whip  snapped  in  my  hand  as  I  thought  of 
Felicite,  our  one  maid-of-all-work,  who  is  obliged 
to  sleep  at  her  home  because  there  is  not  room  for 
her  at  the  farm.  True,  Jeannette  had  two  Quesnoys 
to  wait  upon  her,  not  to  mention  Jean  of  the  Bel 
lows,  all  vying  with  one  another  in  acts  of  courtesy; 
but  was  it  for  me  to  spare  the  whip  on  the  score  of 
that  willing  service?  A  consideration  so  trifling 
never  occurred  to  me  until  this  moment  of  writing. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  81 

Baffled  in  the  pursuit  of  a  master-passion  my 
mind,  perversely  enough,  turned  naturally  to  that 
of  a  peaceful  hobby.  So  without  another  word 
to  the  bailiff,  I  called  at  the  headquarters  of  the 
archaeological  society,  over  which  I  had  long  pre 
sided.  There  I  had  lunch,  followed  by  an  afternoon 
chat  with  such  of  the  members  as  had  joined  me  at 
table.  One  of  them,  the  Vicomte  du  Palfouet,  in 
vited  me  to  dinner,  there  to  continue  our  engross 
ing  discussion  of  the  leper's  bell  I  had  recently  dug 
up,  by  a  happy  accident,  hard  by  the  leper-house  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  my  own  farmstead. 

Now,  my  conviction  was  that  this  bell  must  have 
belonged  to  the  Leper  of  the  Cross  (a  Crusader 
who,  after  fighting  under  the  banner  of  Robert  of 
Normandy,  in  the  First  Crusade,  and  being  present 
at  the  capture  of  Jerusalem,  had  returned  to  Haw 
thorn  Ferry,  a  leper  white  as  snow),  because,  be 
it  noted,  its  haughty  inscription,  Oderint  dum 
metuant,  was  as  much  in  keeping  with  the  leper's 
traditional  character,  as  the  bell  itself  bore  evidence 
of  being  cast  in  the  metal  and  mould  of  that  period. 
The  leper  came  to  an  untimely  end  on  the  wilder 
ness  of  sea-clay  or  tangue,  where  he  was  overtaken 
by  a  pack  of  wolves,  and  worried  to  death.  It  was 
one  snowy  night  in  midwinter,  it  is  said,  and  ever 
since  the  superstition  has  been  that  his  defiant  spirit 
will  haunt  those  ill-omened  wastes  in  nights  of 
snow  or  violence. 

With  such  heat  and  persistency  did  I  argue  the 
point  with  my  host  that,  to  my  surprise,  it  was 
well  past  midnight  when  I  at  last  set  forth  upon  my 
homeward  journey.  On  driving  through  the  town, 


82  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

however,  I  was  overtaken  by  the  heaviest  snow 
storm  I  ever  remembered.  It  was  out  of  the 
question  to  seek  shelter  from  its  rigour,  for  I  had 
allowed  my  favourite  pursuit  to  engross  my  atten 
tion  too  exclusively,  as  it  was.  But  what  a  night 
to  face !  It  fell  so  fast,  this  midnight  snow,  it  was 
as  though  the  clouds  were  falling;  so  thick,  the 
horse  and  cart  seemed  to  be  ploughing  their  way 
through  something  soft  and  white  as  a  woman's 
flesh.  To  me  it  seemed  to  be  Jeannette  in  revolt, 
and  I  the  Juggernaut  Jacques :  it  yielded,  as  she 
might  yield,  but  only  to  beat  down  its  opponent  by 
redoubling  its  lighter  attacks  on  all  sides,  as  Jean 
nette  might  rally  her  quick  wits  and  scathing  irony 
to  cover  her  husband's  violence  with  derision.  .  .  . 

So  meditating,  I  watched  the  brown  mare  grow 
white  to  the  tips  of  her  twitching  ears,  and,  before 
I  had  time  to  wonder  why  they  were  standing  open, 
we  had  swept  through  my  drive  gates  in  a  whirl  of 
snow.  Wide-open,  too,  was  the  front  door,  with 
the  thick  falling  snowflakes  eddying  into  the  salle 
basse  on  the  gusty  wind — God !  that  door  left 
recklessly  open,  as  upon  a  hasty  flight,  or  some  sud 
den  alarm,  it  wrung  my  heart-strings  till  they 
tingled  to  an  acute  misgiving,  finding  utterance  in 
a  cry  that  rang  through  the  house :  a  weakness  I 
had  never  been  guilty  of  before,  not  even  when 
Jeannette  de  Saint-Quentin,  as  she  then  was,  had 
awoke  me  out  of  my  fool's  paradise  by  calling  me 
her  "makeshift."  .  .  . 

There  was  another  cry  of  "Jeannette!"  as  I 
stabled  the  mare  in  her  harness.  .  .  .  Could  it  have 
been  my  usually  impassive  voice?  .  .  .  Then,  with 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  83 

a  bound,  I  rushed  back,  and  through  the  open  door, 
and  groped  blindly  for  the  matches  in  the  salle 
basse. 


The  lamp  lit  at  last,  I  gazed  round  on  a  scene  of 
havoc.  In  splinters  on  the  floor  lay  the  case  of  the 
Norman  tall  clock,  its  face  covered  with  snow,  as 
with  a  shroud.  On  the  table,  the  remains  of  supper, 
congealed  and  squalid.  On  the  wall,  to  the  left 
of  where  the  clock  had  stood,  the  prints  of  four 
greasy  fingers,  greedily  clutching.  .  .  . 

"Jacques!  that  is  his  mark!"  I  muttered,  and 
hastily  washed  it  out.  After  which  I  turned  to  the 
clock,  and  brushed  away  the  snow  with  my  hand. 
It  had  stopped  at  12.14.  I  looked  at  my  watch: 
it  was  1.16 — yes,  I  might  have  reached  home  in 
time,  had  I  denied  myself  my  love  of  argument.  .  .  . 

My  fears  growing,  I  flung  myself  up  the  stairs, 
and  this  time  I  made  the  window-panes  chatter 
with  the  clamour  of  my  brother's  name.  .  .  . 

There  came  no  answer. 

Thereupon,  with  a  quick  tinge  of  conscience, 
oddly  commingling  with  a  jealous  pang,  I  stole  into 
Jeannette's  bedroom  for  the  first  time.  .  .  . 

Bare  her  toilet  table ;  missing  both  cloak  and  hat ; 
and  also  from  the  mantelpiece  her  familiar  treas 
ures:  the  photograph  of  her  dog  Wagtail,  framed 
in  his  collar;  the  hoof  of  her  pony  Grisette,  in  guise 
of  a  trinket-case;  a  pair  of  silver-mounted  spurs, 
which  her  cousin  Xavier  de  Saint-Quentin  was 
wearing  when  he  was  shot  down  by  a  Mexican 
cow-boy;  for  he,  like  my  brother  Jacques,  had  had 


84  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

more  in  common  with  the  sea-roving,  land-grabbing 
vikings  of  the  tenth  century  than  with  the  Normans 
of  the  present  day,  with  their  habits  of  soil-tilling, 
and  the  saving  of  sous. 

Though  I  had  never  seen  them  there,  these 
mementoes  of  the  evergreen  past,  I  did  know  them 
to  have  been  on  the  chimney-piece  when  I  said 
good-bye  to  Jeannette  in  the  early  morning.  In 
deed,  they  had  come  to  be  as  inseparable  from  her 
as,  let  us  say,  the  ready  tear  of  fellow-feeling  in 
her  eyes,  or  the  swift  intaking  of  her  breath  upon 
some  tale  of  heroism  or  adventure.  Wherever 
her  keepsakes  might  be,  there  I  was  sure  to  find  her. 
If  they  were  gone,  then  she,  too,  must  have  left 
the  house.  Only  one  thing  had  power  to  part  her 
from  them — death.  .  .  . 

So  I  reasoned  by  the  bedside,  still  breathing  of 
her  presence.  The  conclusions  to  my  reflections 
nailed  me  to  the  spot  where  she,  if  dead,  should 
have  lain.  I  prayed  that  God  might  preserve  me 
from  a  cup  so  bitter.  .  .  . 

From  every  corner  a  whisper  that  would  not  be 
silenced!  Dead!  .  .  . 

It  pursued  me  on  my  way  downstairs,  rose  to  a 
shout  in  the  salle  basse,  drove  me  out-of-doors  to 
the  shippen. 

In  the  yard  I  trod  on  something  slippery  and 
soft.  I  stood  still,  and,  stooping,  forced  my  hand 
to  fumble  in  the  snow.  .  .  . 

"Butchery,  gran  Dieu!"  I  cried.  Then,  dashing 
into  the  shippen,  I  lit  the  lantern  which  I  kept  there. 

The  cows  were  crouched  asleep.  I  counted  them. 
One  was  missing;  Jeannette's  favourite  white  cow 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  85 

with  the  silver  bells.  ...  It  was  this  gentle  crea 
ture's  blood,  then,  that  clotted  the  snow,  her  intes 
tines  that  I  had  touched.  Slaughtered  by  Jacques 
in  a  frenzy  of  jealousy — that  was  the  only  plausible 
solution  I  could  find  of  the  cow's  death  and  Jean- 
nette's  disappearance;  and  I  clung  to  it  the  more 
desperately  because  it  explained  away,  to  some 
extent,  the  foreboding  that  whispered  to  me  of 
crime.  .  .  . 

I  went  back  to  the  stable :  the  white  cart-horse 
was  gone;  then  to  the  shed  to  find  that  the  hay- 
wagon  had  disappeared  also;  next  to  Jean's 
carpenter's  shop:  not  a  clue;  and,  last  of  all,  I 
went  to  my  brother's  boat-house,  but  no,  there  was 
no  change  there.  .  .  . 

"Jacques  must  have  taken  away  the  cow  in  the 
cart,"  I  pondered.  "Which  way  would  he  go, 
voyons?  .  .  .  Dame!  he  would  avoid  the  Lolif's 
farmstead,  and  take  the  lonely  cattle  track  to  the 
greves,  there  to  bury  his  victim." 

I  put  the  mare  to,  and  set  out  in  pursuit,  wonder 
ing  as  the  snowstorm  beat  down  upon  me,  with  an 
aloofness  that  now  baffled  my  comprehension,  first, 
whether  or  no  the  absence  of  Jean  of  the  Bellows 
might  be  coupled  with  Jeannette's  apparent  flight, 
and  hence  the  slaughter  of  the  white  cow  and  the 
destruction  of  the  mother's  tall  clock  by  Jacques; 
and  next,  with  the  feelings  of  the  natural  man 
contending  with  the  thoughts  of  the  philosopher, 
whether,  if  dead  she  were,  my  flesh  would  rejoice 
to  be  quit  of  the  sting  of  a  barren  desire,  or  whether 
that  consummation  would  be  speedily  avenged  by 
the  spirit's  outcry.  .  .  . 


86  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

By  Heaven!  I  concluded,  my  smouldering  lust, 
at  any  rate,  would  be  snuffed  out  upon  the  instant, 
like  some  glittering,  evil-smelling  candle  by  a 
wholesome  puff  of  wind.  .  .  . 

True!  .  .  .  But  what  of  the  rest  of  me  which  is 
paramount?  .  .  .  What  of  the  imagination  on  the 
wing  to  catch  the  unuttered  thought  beaming  in 
her  eyes?  .  .  .  the  sympathy  that  would  divine 
her  need  before  she  herself  could  feel  the  want?  .  .  . 
the  spirit  that  had  ever  craved  to  steel  itself  anew 
in  the  cleansing  fires  of  renunciation?  .  .  .  Dame! 
I  would  have  torn  the  yearning  flesh  from  off  my 
bones  if  she  might  live  to  test  my  spirit's  bent !  .  .  . 

I  had  got  so  far  in  my  meditations  when,  from 
away  out  there  where  the  rough  track  dips  down 
to  the  ashen  haunts  of  the  heron,  there  sounded  on 
the  wind  the  shrill  scream  of  that  bird  of  sorrow, 
followed  by  a  cry  so  unmanned  that  I  drew  rein, 
wondering : 

"A  bout!  ...  a  bout!  .  .  .  Dead-beat!  dead- 
beat!  .  .  ." 

The  voice  was  unrecognisable — as  must  ever  be  the 
articulate  expression  of  some  searching  agony  that 
has  set  our  subconscious  ego  vibrating  to  the  lips. 
.  .  .  Who  was  the  man  driven  to  this  bitter  end 
of  human  endurance?  ...  A  fisherman  sinking 
into  a  quicksand  might,  before  being  sucked  under 
to  the  lips,  find  such  a  voice,  as  rang  in  this  last 
appeal  of  the  exhausted.  .  .  .  Dame,  when  a 
Norman  admits  that  he  is  at  the  last  gasp  he  must 
surely  be  caught  in  a  death-trap  from  which  escape 
is  impossible!  .  .  . 

Then  another  thought,  a  greater  fear:  what  if 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  87 

it  were  Jacques,  broken-hearted,  deserted,  des 
perate?  .  .  . 

The  spirit  of  kinship  awoke,  driving  the  blood 
through  my  veins.  My  brother's  need  was  mine : 
God  save  the  wayfarer  in  my  road,  at  the  call  of 
the  Quesnoy  blood!  In  response  to  that  appeal  I 
would  have  hacked  my  way  through  a  host  of 
enemies.  .  .  . 

With  a  shout  that  thrilled  me  to  the  heart,  I 
stood  up  and  laid  on  the  whip :  the  mare  took 
fright,  jibbing  to  the  ditch;  but,  after  a  brief 
struggle,  I  managed  to  coax  her  little  by  little  into 
a  breathless  gallop.  Down  the  snowy  lane  we  sped, 
and  away  out  upon  the  wilderness  of  sea-clay — 
transformed  since  the  morning  into  a  scene  of 
Arctic  inhospitality  by  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather.  Every  pool  was  turned  to  ice;  more, 
the  very  rivers  were  freezing;  while  the  snow- 
shrouded  wastes,  crackling  under  the  spinning 
wheels,  offered  many  a  trap  to  our  swift  passage, 
in  that  the  deep  runnels  were  now  buried.  .  .  . 
Again  the  piercing  lament  arose,  followed  by  a 
whir  of  wings :  it  was  the  last  of  two  herons  that 
had  haunted  these  purlieus,  and  it  was  now  doubt 
less  mourning  her  mate  that  had  fallen  to  my 
brother's  gun  the  day  before.  Still  uttering  its  in 
termittent  cries  of  grief,  it  flapped  by  in  the  fitful 
moonlight,  thrilling  me  to  the  heart  with  I  know 
not  what  prescience  of  unimaginable  sorrow.  .  .  . 

"Jacques!"  I  cried  from  one  river  to  the  other, 
over  the  intervening  expanse  of  snow  and  ice. 
And  again:  "Brother!  why  do  you  not  answer?" 
Turning  at  every  sound,  I  listened  ever  for  the  reply 


88  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

which  never  came,  until  at  last  the  mare  showed 
such  grievous  signs  of  exhaustion  that  I  was  com 
pelled  in  mercy  to  abandon  the  search,  consoling 
myself  as  best  I  could  with  the  reflection  that  the 
voice  might  not  have  been  my  brother's  after  all. 

On  reaching  Hawthorne  Ferry  Farm  once  more, 
the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  groom  the  mare,  and 
give  her  a  hot  bran  mash;  then  I  went  round  to 
the  front  drive  in  full  view  of  the  entrance  gates. 
There  I  stood  absorbed  in  meditation,  until  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels  awoke  me  out  of  my 
anxious  musing. 

I  at  once  ran  down  the  drive  at  full  speed,  cry 
ing:— 

"Jacques,  is  that  you?  Jeannette,  wherever 
have  you  been?  Jacques!  Jeannette?"  And  the 
whole  of  my  reticent  heart  for  once  rose  to  my 
lips  in  joyful  expectation.  Surely  my  brother's 
heart  must  open  to  receive  the  gift,  since  it  was  he, 
no  less  than  Jeannette,  that  filled  my  own?  .  .  . 

Fool  that  I  am!  there  is  no  one  so  sound  of 
hearing  but  jealousy  will  turn  him  deaf  as  a 
stone!  .  .  . 

"Shout  the  cursed  house  down!"  came  back  my 
brother's  reply.  "If  you  shout  till  you  burst  your 
windpipe  you  will  get  no  answer  from  Jeannette, 
for  Jeannette  has  bolted — bolted  without  a  stitch 
.  .  .  except,  of  course,  the  duds  she  was  wear- 
ing!  .  .  ." 

I  held  up  the  lantern  that  its  light  might  shine 
upon  his  face;  then  I  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  .  .  . 

Every  inch  a  viking,  he  had  had  a  face  in  which 
all  women  had  delighted,  being  as  it  had  been,  a 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  89 

virile  brand  of  dare-devil  impetuosity  and  a  quaint 
but  natural  appearance  of  boyish  candour:  an 
artless  expression  of  innocence,  that  is,  had  twink 
led  in  the  great  blue  eyes,  and  made  it  as  impossible 
for  him  to  play  a  part,  as  to  control  his  feelings 
under  any  emotional  sway.  .  .  . 

What  a  change  was  there !  I  shall  best  explain 
the  transformation  by  saying  that  the  pirate  in  him 
had  slain  the  boy,  and  forthwith  sheathed  the  drip 
ping  blade,  and  that  without  a  pang. 

A  revolution  of  character  so  swift  and  so  un 
expected  caused  me  a  profound  mistrust :  I  studied 
the  handsome  face,  with  a  deliberation  that  seemed 
to  communicate  to  him  the  suspicion  which  I  my 
self  was  all  too  conscious  of  feeling. 

"Look,  Andre,"  he  said :  "this  is  what  she  left  me 
in  farewell." 

And  snatching  a  scrap  of  paper  out  of  his  breast 
pocket,  he  thrust  it  into  my  hand. 

The  note  bore  the  words : — "And  since  I  do  not 
love  you,  Jacques,  why  should  I  stay  and  endure?" 

To  judge  from  the  time-worn  creases  in  the 
paper,  and  from  the  faded  ink,  Jeannette  must  have 
stayed  and  endured  a  good  many  months  after  she 
had  penned  the  lines.  The  subterfuge  was  a 
stretch  beyond  my  credulity. 

"Tiens!"  I  remarked  coldly,  and  handed  him 
back  the  paper. 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  standing  bolt  upright  in 
the  wagon,  then  lashed  out  at  the  snowflakes  as 
they  fell — an  exercise  that  appeared  to  pacify  him. 

"You  mustn't  insinuate  I'm  a  liar,"  he  began, 
"or  I'll  tell  you  nothing." 


90  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"You  must  tell  me  why  you  slaughtered  the 
white  cow — she  was  our  common  property,"  I  re 
plied  firmly. 

"She  had  developed  tuberculosis,  as  you  always 
said  she  would." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  Jacques.  I  once  called  her 
a  pampered  creature,  and " 

"She  was  a  sickly  beast  that  was  better  dead," 
he  interrupted.  "You  have  no  eye  for  cattle  or  you 
would  have  seen  signs  of  the  disease  long  ago. 
I  tell  you  I  had  to  kill  her.  On  my  return  Jean- 
nette  was  gone.  I  had  left  her  by  herself  to  re 
cover  her  temper,  after  a  tiff  we  had  had  at  supper." 

"And  where  was  Jean?" 

The  question  excited  him.  Unduly  in  my 
opinion,  warrantably  in  his,  regarding  my  in 
quiries,  as  he  unaccountably  did,  as  inquisitorial. 

Anxious  to  conciliate  him  (for  had  he  not  lost 
his  wife?),  I  heard  his  story  out  without  saying  one 
word.  Dame!  I  did  not  fail  to  note  the  coinci 
dence  of  my  enemy's  being  away  on  my  arrival  at 
the  chateau  du  Quesnoy,  and  my  family  conspicuous 
by  their  absence,  on  my  return  to  Hawthorn  Ferry 
Farm.  .  .  . 

My  silence  enraged  him  more  than  had  my 
questions;  but  his  anger  lacked  fire,  as  who  should 
snatch  at  a  straw  to  feed  the  flame  of  a  righteous 
indignation. 

"How  much  longer  d'you  intend  to  stay  out  here, 
with  the  wind  cutting  like  a  razor  ...  or  the  blade 
of  the  guillotine.  .  .  .  Like  to  feel  the  edge  of  the 
'Widow's'  tongue,  Andre,  the  Woman-hater?" 

I  looked  at  him,  partly  in  doubt,  partly  in  sym- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  91 

pathy;  it  was  the  sympathy  alone  which  appeared 
on  the  surface. 

"And  Jeannette?"  I  asked. 

"To  hell  with  you  and  Jeannette !  Didn't  I  tell 
you  she  has  bolted?  If  you  think  it's  with  Jean 
of  the  Bellows,  you'd  better  call  me  a  liar,  and  take 
the  consequences.  Jean,  as  I  could  have  told  you 
before,  is  gone  to  Raoul  de  Guernon's.  Bolted  to 
the  devil,  or  to  Gerard  du  Quesnoy,  that's  what's 
become  of  Jeannette." 

Then,  his  mouth  wide  open,  he  gave  way  to  a 
prolonged  outcry. 

It  was  a  somewhat  ridiculous  exhibition  of  feel 
ing.  I  merely  shrugged  my  shoulders,  saying  in 
contemptuous  pity  which  stung : — 

"Fool !" 

"Out  of  the  way,  man,  or  I'll  run  you  down,"  he 
roared. 

It  is  the  merest  act  of  discretion,  be  a  man  never 
so  valorous,  to  step  aside  where  a  maniac  has 
usurped  the  seat  of  the  god  in  the  car;  so  I,  being 
nothing  if  not  discreet,  withdrew  a  nonchalant 
pace  ...  no  more  .  .  .  when,  under  the  sting 
of  the  lash,  the  old  white  horse  stumbled  into  a 
gallop,  and  thundered  into  the  courtyard.  The  off 
wheel  of  the  ponderous  wagon  grazed  my  leg  as  it 
passed. 

I  sauntered  after  him. 

"Why  was  it  that  you,  and  not  the  butcher 
slaughtered  the  white  cow?  And  why,  above  all, 
did  you  dress  it  as  if  for  the  market?" 

"Why? — to  slake  my  thirst  for  vengeance,  a 
thirst  which  you  with  your  frozen  emotions  have 


92  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

never  felt.  Had  you  been  in  my  place,  your  Nor 
man  thrift  would  have  driven  you  on  to  batten  on 
the  meat — while  I  was  prompted  by  the  yearning 
to  feel  the  knife  cut  into  something  soft  and  yield 
ing  as  the  flesh  that  had  betrayed  me." 

"Enough,"  I  rapped  out:  "have  done,  man." 
And  I  strode  into  the  house,  leaving  him  shivering 
in  the  teeth  of  the  frost  and  storm. 


Better  feelings  prevailed  in  the  kitchen.  The 
first  thing  I  did  was  to  remove  all  evidence  of  the 
quarrel,  by  taking  away  the  splintered  clock,  and 
putting  the  furniture  in  its  place;  after  which  I 
knelt  down  at  the  hearth,  and,  blowing  the  embers 
into  a  blaze,  piled  up  the  logs  of  oak  and  elm.  Then 
hooking  the  cocotte  to  the  great  chain  above,  I  fell 
to  preparing  a  hearty  meal  of  soupe  a  la  graisse, 
with  a  drink  of  home-brewed  brandy,  hot  and 
spiced,  to  put  fresh  heart  into  him  should  he 
follow  my  example,  and  allow  his  better  feelings  to 
overcome  his  resentment.  .  .  . 

After  waiting  until  the  soup  was  off  the  boil, 
thus  spoiling  my  own  supper,  I  strode  to  the  front 
door,  and  sharply  ordered  him  to  come  in  out  of  the 
cold  and  talk  the  matter  over.  He  obeyed,  obedi 
ent  as  a  dog. 

The  tears  welled  into  his  eyes  at  sight  of  the 
scraps  which  Jeannette,  as  usual,  had  left  upon  her 
plate;  I  cursed  my  forget  fulness  in  not  clearing 
away  the  remains  of  their  last  supper,  and  in  leaving 
her  vacant  chair  still  in  its  accustomed  place  at  the 
table. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  KINSHIP  93 

To  make  some  amends,  and  also  to  show  my 
sympathy  with  his  manly  endeavour  to  conceal  his 
grief  from  me,  I  went  and  laid  my  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 

To  my  amazement,  his  giant  frame  cowered 
under  the  touch.  His  very  lips  grew  white  as  he 
shrieked  in  an  agony  of  terror : 

"Hands  off,  man!  ...  I  say,  hands  off!" 

"Jacques,  you  are  unnerved.  Get  to  bed  at  once. 
We  will  discuss  this  matter  after  sunrise.  I  tell 
you,  I  will  take  no  denial.  To  bed,  Jacques !" 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  shuddering;  cast  a  furtive 
look  from  where  the  tall  clock  had  stood  to  where 
the  fire  burned  brightly,  and  then  stole  out  of  the 
room  without  a  word. 

Left  alone,  I  stood  for  some  time  with  my  back 
to  the  fire,  buried  deep  in  thought.  ...  As  the 
snow  melted  I  saw,  lying  in  a  pool  in  a  dip  of  the 
earth  floor,  a  sheet  of  white  note-paper,  and  stoop 
ing,  picked  it  up. 

"Slip  away  to-night  and  join  me  at  Munich.  Be 
ware  of  Andre.  Are  you  not  mine,  as  I  thine f 
I  am  in  a  fever  to  hear  you  whisper  yet  again:— 
'Oui,  mon  Gerard,  je  suis  toute  tienne.' ' 

Is  the  mother  conscious  that  the  child  in  her 
womb  is  dead?  .  .  .  Something  had  died  within 
me  which  had  kept  me  warm?  I  felt  cold  to  the 
marrow  suddenly.  .  .  . 


94  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Presently  my  heart  grew  warmer.  There  was 
always  Jacques.  Nay,  he  was  more  dear  to  me 
than  ever,  for  was  I  not  more  than  ever  necessary 
to  him?  .  .  .  As  for  Gerard  du  Quesnoy  and  his 
paramour,  with  them  I  would  deal  when  Jacques 
should  need  me  no  more  .  .  . 

So  deciding,  I  sat  down  before  the  fire,  and, 
there  being,  as  it  were,  no  more  oil  in  my  lamp, 
soon  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  II 

CLUTCHING    FINGERS 
1 

I  AWOKE  at  sunrise,  aroused  by  a  panic-stricken 
cry  from  my  brother's  bedroom.  By  a  strange 
coincidence,  the  face  of  Jean  of  the  Bellows  peeped 
in  at  the  lattice  window  at  that  very  moment, 
looking  radiantly  happy.  Whether  I  heard  the 
outcry  from  upstairs  before  I  saw  the  beaming 
countenance  pressed  against  the  window-panes,  or 
vice  versa,  I  cannot  say  for  certain,  but  striding 
first  to  the  window,  I  flung  it  open,  nearly  upsetting 
the  lamp  on  the  sill. 

"Jean  of  the  Bellows,"  I  cried:  "the  bird  has 
flown;  you  have  come  too  late  to  say  good-bye." 

"My  God!"  he  breathed  .  .  .  and  stood  petrified. 

"Yes,"  I  continued;  "your  day  is  over  .  .  .  and 
your  night  begun." 

Then,  leaving  to  his  own  reflections  the  boy  who 
had  blown  the  bellows,  I  hastened  to  my  brother's 
bedside. 

"Jean  has  returned,"  I  said :  "thank  God,  Jean- 
nette  has  not  fled  with  him." 

His  heart  seemed  to  burst.       I  took  pity  on  him. 

"Sleep  it  out,  Jacques,"  I  insisted :  "we  will  leave 
all  further  talk  until  you  are  your  own  man  again." 

95 


96  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

He  lay  huddled  on  his  side.  With  a  heave  he 
sat  up  and  looked  at  me  with  a  smile.  It  was  a 
smile  as  bitter  as  was  to  me  the  thought  of  the  dead 
thing  I  had  ripped  too  late  out  of  my  own  heart. 
His  great  jaws  clinched  on  the  white  teeth,  small 
and  even  as  Jeannette's  own. 

"The  grave  isn't  so  narrow  but  it'll  hold  us 
both,"  he  retorted  grimly:  and  it  wasn't  of  our 
selves  he  was  thinking;  "nor,"  he  added  after  a 
pause,  "so  deep  but  my  clenched  fist  will  force  its 
way  up  to  the  surface." 

A  saying  so  dark,  from  a  man  whose  mind  had 
ever  been  an  open  book  to  me,  was  phenomenal. 
This  was  a  new  Jacques,  supine  yet  subtle,  filling 
me  with  a  vague  uneasiness;  indeed,  I  had  been 
scarcely  less  astonished  had  time  stood,  or  a  yokel 
grown  metaphorical. 

What  did  he  mean,  voyonsf  Was  it  perhaps 
that  his  wrath  had  killed  his  love  ?  Or  was  it  not 
more  probable  .  .  . 

"What  the  devil  are  you  staring  at  ?" 

A  la  bonne  heure!  this  was  the  old  Jacques  come 
to  the  surface  again,  along  with  the  clenched  fist. 
It  was  easier  to  manage  him. 

"I  was  pondering  over  your  cryptic  utterance, 
mon  frere,"  I  replied.  "If  I  might  be  allowed  to 
employ  a  more  indirect  manner  of  speaking,  I  should 
say  that  Jeannette  dug  a  grave  for  herself  last 
night,  which  no  Quesnoy  should  ever  share." 

"Ah !"  The  interjection  matched  the  smile  in  its 
bitterness;  it  fell  on  my  heart  and  rebounded  as 
might  a  pebble  from  off  a  coffin-lid.  .  .  .  Then, 
raising  himself  on  his  elbow  he  ground  his  teeth 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  97 

together.  "Are  you  sure  of  that?"  he  continued. 
"Seems  to  me,  Gerard  du  Quesnoy  would  have 
the  laugh  on  his  side,  if  he — 

I  cut  him  short.  "Leave  Gerard  du  Quesnoy  to 
me,"  I  said  curtly:  "the  nearest  midden  shall  be 
his  burial  ground."  And  I  went  downstairs  into 
the  salle  basse,  where  I  found  Jean  immersed  in 
thought  by  the  fireside.  A  mirthless  laugh  from 
Jacques  had  followed  me  out. 

The  night  had  aged  the  boy;  a  manly  dignity 
now  almost  bridged  the  years  between  us.  He 
rose  as  I  entered,  and  drew  up  a  chair  for  me  by  the 
hearth.  We  sat  down  facing  each  other,  and  soon 
he  was  lost  again  in  his  own  reflections  .  .  .  not 
altogether  unpleasant  ones  either,  to  judge  from  the 
play  of  his  mobile  countenance.  ...  I  felt  my  old 
distrust  rising  as  I  watched  him. 

Of  what  was  he  thinking,  the  graceless  young 
scamp!  I  resolved  to  challenge  his  self-posses 
sion. 

"Jeannette,"  I  began,  then  paused  to  mark  the 
effect.  He  had  not  heard.  I  repeated  the  name 
with  additional  emphasis;  he  never  stirred.  "Jean 
nette  anyhow,"  I  continued,  "is  not  the  mistress  of 
your  thoughts." 

He  looked  up  slowly,  hesitatingly,  his  eyes  dazed 
with  absentmindedness. 

"Sorry,  Andre,  I've  been  wool-gathering.  Did 
you  speak?" 

"Yes;  Jacques  is  worn  out,  and  will  not  get  up 
to-day,"  I  replied. 

He  was  all  attention  at  once;  but,  before  he 
could  say  a  word,  Jacques  himself  had  burst  into 


98  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

the  room,  his  braces  knotted  round  his  waist,  his 
night-shirt  open  to  the  throat  and  chest,  his  chin 
and  jaws  all  bristles :  evidence  enough  of  his  despair 
doubtless,  but  a  despair  which  bids  you  shirk  the 
duties  of  the  toilet  verges  too  closely  on  madness 
to  arouse  any  compassion  in  me. 

"Won't  he?"  he  shouted.  "Catch  him  shivering 
between  the  sheets  when  there's  a  man's  work  to 
be  done  downstairs." 

I  looked  at  Jean.  He  had  jumped  to  his  feet, 
smiling,  alert,  and  debonair.  I  felt  my  heart  warm 
ing  towards  him. 

"What!"  stormed  Jacques:  "toasting  your  toes 
at  our  fireside,  with  Jeannette  waiting  for  you  in 
the  cold  outside  .  .  .  somewhere?  Off  with  you 
and  seek  her  out,  or  I'll  wring  your  neck  as  I  would 
a  chicken's."  And  before  I  could  intervene,  his 
clutching  fingers  were  around  the  boy's  throat.  .  .  . 
"You  can  find  your  way  out  from  there,  can't 
you?"  he  said,  as  he  flung  Jean  from  one  end  of  the 
room  to  the  other,  and  then  sat  down  in  mother's 
vacant  chair,  with  a  careless,  "Don't  bang  the  door 
after  you — my  nerves  won't  stand  it." 

The  boy's  eyes  flashed,  though  his  lips  never 
ceased  smiling.  As  sure  a  proof  of  mettle  as  of 
gentle  blood;  then  with  an  elan  which  proved  him 
to  be  French,  he  came  leaping  back  to  encounter, 
with  as  merry  a  burst  of  laughter  as  ever  I  heard. 
The  next  instant  they  were  kneading  each  other's 
features  with  their  fists — an  exercise  which  has 
always  struck  me  as  unbecoming  men  of  gentle 
breeding,  to  whom  the  use  of  the  sword  should  be 
a  second  nature  .  .  .  None  the  less,  when  I  came 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  99 

to  witness  the  grace  and  dash  of  their  every  move 
ment,  the  swift,  clean  strokes  of  Jacques,  and  the 
tireless  good-temper  of  the  boy  who  laughed  them 
off,  I  was  obliged  to  do  some  violence  to  my  feel 
ings  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
fight,  rapier  in  hand. 

Both  combatants  resented  my  interference  with 
equal  force. 

"Nom  de  Dieu!"  bellowed  Jacques :  "mayn't  a 
man  ease  his  feelings  like  a  man?  I  can  tell  you 
this — I  had  rather  have  a  dozen  rounds  with  Jean 
of  the  Bellows  than  with  any  other  man  in  Nor 
mandy." 

"Stick  that  bodkin  of  yours  in  its  sheath,"  cried 
his  opponent,  "and  let  old  Jacques  and  me  fight  it 
out  with  nature's  weapons.  Damn  it!  can't  you 
see  what  a  magnificent  boxer  your  brother  is?  Or 
is  it  that  you  won't?" 

"It's  because  he  won't,"  growled  Jacques :  "all 
his  admiration  was  for  you.  Not  that  you  don't 
deserve  it.  Tu  as  du  poll,  faut  le  dire!"  For  an 
instant  the  old  Jacques  had  returned. 

"Never  mind,  Jacques :  we'll  be  even  with  each 
other  yet !  Meanwhile,  here's  my  hand.  You  may 
shake  it  with  a  clear  conscience.  I  swear  I  know 
no  more  than  you  do  where  Jeannette  is  gone. 
Andre  himself  has  no  cleaner  conscience  than  mine, 
in  this  case." 

"Conscience!"  shouted  Jacques:  "don't  let  me 
hear  you  mouthing  that  word  again,  Jean  of  the 
Bellows — damn  your  hypocrisy,  boy,  I  have  a  good 
mind  to  bring  you  into  contact  with  my  conscience 
— I  keep  it  at  the  knuckle  end  of  my  fists." 


100  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"If  you  mean  that  I  too  loved  her " 

At  that  Jacques  swung  around  to  meet  the  speaker 
eye  to  eye.  " — I'm  not  the  man  to  contradict  you," 
continued  Jean;  "who  didn't  love  her?  Was  it 
you,  Jacques?  Or  you,  Andre?  Or  was  it  Ger 
ard  du  Quesnoy,  do  you  think,  who  would  be  only 
too  proud  to  admit  his  passion,  were  he  here  ?  You 
are  silent,  Andre?  No  matter — silence  gives 
consent." 

Jacques  burst  forth  into  an  incredulous  laugh. 

"Andre  in  love?"  he  scoffed:  "nonsense,  boy! 
Andre  couldn't  love  a  woman  better  than  he  loves 
me,  nor  would  he  love  me  were  I  not  a  Quesnoy." 

There  was  some  truth  in  what  he  said  .  .  . 
more  perhaps  than  either  of  us  was  fully  aware  of. 
Had  I  not  hidden  away  the  tall  clock,  because  it 
spoke  of  violence? — washed  out  the  tell-tale  finger 
prints,  because  they  echoed  the  suspicion? — kept  to 
myself  the  discovery  of  Gerard  du  Quesnoy 's  au 
dacious  note,  because  the  knowledge  of  it  might  still 
further  scorch  my  brother's  wounds? 

"Gerard  du  Quesnoy,"  continued  Jacques : 
"dame!  he's  bound  by  no  such  tie.  What  do  you 
know  of  Gerard  du  Quesnoy?  Out  with  it,  boy! 
Don't  stand  there  fumbling  for  words,  do  you 
hear?" 

"I  can  tell  you  this,"  I  quickly  answered  in  Jean's 
place,  "Gerard  du  Quesnoy  is  now  on  his  way  to 
Russia.  I  called  at  the  chateau  yesterday  after 
noon,  as  you  know,  only  to  find  that  he  had  left 
home  the  day  before." 

"Sacre  bon  Sang!"  muttered  Jacques:  "a  whole 
day  before  Jeannette!  That  won't  help  .  .  .  No, 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  101 

no,  I  must — that  is,  we  must  seek  elsewhere  .  .  ." 
"Why  so?"  I  said,  as  much  to  cover  his  slip  as  to 
help  him  to  a  better  understanding  of  the  situation. 
"He  would  naturally  leave  first,  would  he  not?  and 
wait  for  her  en  route,  hein?  In  Munich,  perhaps, 
or  in  Vienna." 

"You  may  be  right,  Andre,  you  may  be  right! 
I  never  thought  of  that."    And  I  could  almost  hear 
his  restless  fingers  fluttering  through  the  half-open 
book  of  his  mind.       How  relieved  he  looked. 
Jean  of  the  Bellows  leaped  to  his  feet. 
"I  don't  believe  she  would  go  to  him,"  he  cried, 
"and  leave  us  toiling  and  moiling!"  and  he  flashed 
his  vivid  face  upon  us,  as  he  flung  out  an  accusing 
arm. 

"Don't  you?"  shouted  Jacques.  "I  tell  you  Andre 
knows  better,  Andre  is  always  right,  so  what  the 
devil  do  you  mean  by  putting  in  your  spoke?" 
Jean  turned  to  me. 

"Andre,"  he  pleaded :  "speak  up  for  her.      Good 
Heavens,  man,  she  has  resisted  Gerard  for  years !" 
"Has  she?"  bellowed  Jacques. 
"Yes,  she  has!    And  what's  more,  she  knew  him 
before  she  met  you." 

"Or   before   she   felt  the   pinch  of   poverty," 
grimly  added. 

"You  are  the  worst  sort  of  hypocrite,  boy:  you 
don't  even  know  you  are  one,"  burst  in  Jacques. 
"By  God,  Andre,  you  are  right  again,  and 
him  down,  the  treacherous  hound,  though  I  have  to 
scour  every  steppe  in  Russia!"       His  excitement 
growing,  he  literally  danced  from  one  end  of 
room  to  the  other,  sawing  the  air  with  both  his 


102  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

arms,  and  muttering  incoherent  threats.  "The 
worst  sort  of  hypocrite,  damn  him!  .  .  .  Jealous, 
too,  by  God!  ...  A  jealous  humbug,  think  of  it! 
But  I'm  damned  if  I'll  allow  his  jealousy  and 
humbuggery  to  slip  between  me  and  my  revenge! 
I'm  off  to  Russia,  and  the  devil  himself  shan't  stop 
me — resisted  Gerard?  Did  she!  Damn  Gerard, 
I  say !  Damn  you  too,  Jean  of  the  Bellows !  Damn 
every  one  of  the  mischief-making  trio."  .  .  . 

I  watched  him  with  increasing  uneasiness :  that 
he  should  play  a  part  at  all,  as  he  evidently  was 
doing,  was  a  sufficient  ground  for  my  anxiety;  but 
that  he  should  overact  the  part  was  a  danger  that 
I  felt  bound  to  check. 

"Excuse  me,  Jacques,"  said  I,  smiling,  "your 
haste  to  overtake  your  wife  is,  to  be  sure,  natural 
enough ;  but  is  it  certain  that  you  would  find  her 
with  the  man  whom  you  rightly  call  a  treacherous 
hound?  Nay,  nay:  you  will  stay  at  home  and 
mind  the  farm.  Gerard  du  Quesnoy  is  the  enemy 
of  our  house :  therefore  it  is  for  me,  its  representa 
tive,  to  bring  him  to  book,  and  not  for  you,  the 
guardian  of  your  wife's  honour.  Her  good  name  is 
unimpeachable :  why,  then,  prompt  the  malicious  to 
call  it  in  question?  ...  As  for  you,  Jean,  you 
will  leave  for  Brussels  by  the  first  train  in  the 
morning.  The  sooner  you  go  and  pack " 

The  boy  started  to  his  feet. 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort !"  he  exclaimed : 
"I  shall  stay  where  I  am  and  mend  maman's  tall 
clock." 

"Par  exemple!"  roared  Jacques;  "I'll  see  you 
damned  first." 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  103 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,  Jacques.  Quite  the  other 
way  round.  It's  I  that  shall  see  you  damned  after." 

I  stepped  between  them. 

"Come,  come,  Jean,"  I  said  to  humour  him,  "the 
clock  can  be  mended  on  your  return,  can  it  not?" 

"I  had  rather  mend  it  first  than  last,"  he  ob 
jected.  "Besides,  what's  the  use  of  my  going  to 
Brussels  ?" 

"Well,  the  marquise  lives  there,  for  one  thing; 
she  is  bound  to  know  her  husband's  address,  for 
another;  and  you  will  telegraph  it  to  me  without  a 
moment's  unnecessary  delay." 

I  spoke  sharply,  even  peremptorily;  to  get  rid  of 
Jean  was  as  necessary  as  to  keep  an  eye  on  Jacques. 

I  could  scarcely  believe  my  ears  when  the  youth 
coolly  informed  me  that  he,  forsooth,  might  have  a 
better  scheme  in  contemplation. 

"It  would  have  popped  out  ere  this  had  it  been 
in  that  open  mind  of  yours,  boy,"  I  retorted;  where 
upon  Jacques  sat  down  with  a  grunt  of  satisfac 
tion. 

"She  might  be  buried  in  a  snow-drift,  for  all  you 
know,"  was  Jean's  quick  rejoinder. 

And  then  a  pregnant  exclamation  from  Jacques. 

"What's  that?"  he  cried,  leaping  to  his  feet,  and 
clenching  his  hands  convulsively.  .  .  .  And  again 
I  saw  the  prints  of  the  clutching  fingers  on  the 
whitewashed  wall.  .  .  .  "Who  talked  of  her  burial 
before  she's  dead  ?  Was  it  you  Jean  ?" 

And  before  I  could  weigh  the  words  as  they  de 
served,  they  were  dashed  out  of  my  mind  by  a  cry 
of  triumph  from  Jean. 

"And  who  pitched  her  dog-collar  into  the  fire?" 


104  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

he  retorted.  "Was  it  you,  Jacques?  .  .  .  Don't 
deny  it,  man,  for  here's  the  proof."  And  he  threw 
upon  the  table  a  brass  ring  and  a  plate  that  bore 
her  name  and  address. 

I  forced  myself  to  look  at  Jacques,  and  then,  with 
an  even  greater  effort,  forced  myself  to  look  away. 
I  had  seen  more  than  I  dared  to  interpret,  more 
than  would  warrant  my  leaving  him  to  his  own  de 
vices,  or  than  I  should  like  Jean  to  have  detected 
before  my  brother  had  responded  to  my  warning 
eye. 

"Who's  denying  it,  you  fool?"  he  roared.  "I 
burned  everything  she  treasured — curse  her!  .  .  . 
Whom  are  you  judging,  you  beardless  boy?  Wait 
until  you're  married,  and  your  wife  slips  the  lead 
and  bolts  to  another  man!  Don't  try  to  crow  it 
over  me  who  have  been  let  down,  or  I'll  choke  the 
life  out  of  you,  with  as  little  compunction  as  I  put 
that  cursed  clock  to  silence.  .  .  .  Deny  it?  Why, 
I  flung  her  very  nightgown  into  the  fire  because  it 
smelt  of  her !" 

Heroics  ?  .  .  .  I  wondered  .  .  .  and,  wondering, 
slipped  the  ring  and  inscription  plate  into  my  pocket 
when  Jean  was  not  looking — in  vain.  .  .  . 

"Where  are  the  things  I  left  on  the  table?"  he 
asked,  on  the  silence  which  followed  my  brother's 
outburst. 

"They  are  in  the  custody  of  the  head  of  the  fam 
ily,"  I  replied. 

"You  send  me  clean  out  of  the  country  on  a  fool's 
errand — I  don't  like  it — I  won't  stand  it.  Besides, 
what  should  I  say  when  I  got  there?" 

"You  would  ask  her  a  question,  which  only  her 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  105 

husband  could  answer;  she  would  naturally  tell  you 
to  apply  to  him ;  and  you  could  then  plead  that  you 
did  not  know  his  address." 

"Easier  said  than  done.  Let  X  equal  the  ques 
tion,  hein?" 

"Or,  say,  the  lease  of  the  chateau  du  Quesnoy." 

"But  we  don't  want  the  Quesnoy." 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Jean.  I  do  want  the  Ques 
noy,  at  my  own  price." 

"Then  why  ask  me  to  do  your  own  .  .  .  dirty 
work?" 

I  pardoned  the  expression,  because  to  him  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  falsehood  in  my  plan.  I  went 
a  step  further :  I  liked  the  boy  the  better  for  his 
candour.  Indeed,  his  whole  attitude  since  I  first 
saw  his  face  at  the  window  had,  despite  my  pre 
conceived  notions  of  his  character,  gone  far  to  win 
me  over  to  the  side  of  leniency.  I  accordingly 
appealed  to  that  fellow-feeling  in  him  upon  which 
he  himself  had  once  called,  and  concluded  by  a  tact 
ful  allusion  to  the  vacant  chair  which,  I  said,  would 
have  joined  with  me  in  asking  him  to  help  me  at 
this  family  crisis. 

With  the  irresistible  smile  which  he  seems  to 
have  caught  from  us  Quesnoys,  and  then  made  his 
own  by  virtue  of  some  witchery  of  his  mobile  lips 
and  sunlit  eyes,  he  had  flung  down  his  arms  almost 
before  I  could  ask  him  if  he  would  make  an  early 
start  on  the  morrow. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  he  spontaneously  exclaimed. 
"I'll  go  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning,  if  you 
like." 

"Je  vous  remercie,  mon  frere." 


106  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Who  would  have  believed  it — the  impetuous 
boy  gave  a  sob,  and  then,  grand  Dieu,  made  matters 
worse  by  hugging  me  in  his  stout  young  arms. 
Heart  to  heart  we  stood.  Was  he  conscious  of  the 
cold  left  by  the  dead  thing;  which,  living,  had 
clogged  my  heart's  action  ?  Was  I  even  then  aware, 
that  his  heart  was  free  at  last  of  the  same  dead  bur 
den?  If  so,  he  himself  had  yet  to  grow  conscious 
of  the  relief. 

"Dame!  Andre,  you  shall  know  the  whole 
truth,  so  far  as  my  own  honour  is  involved  in  this 
family  misfortune — yes,  parbleu,  I  will  write  it 
down — every  word."  And  so  exclaiming,  he 
rushed  impetuously  out  of  the  room. 


Left  alone  in  the  salle  basse,  I  sat  down  to  a  quiet 
smoke.  ...  I  was  wondering  what  had  become  of 
Jacques,  when  I  heard  his  voice  in  the  farmyard. 
He  seemed  to  be  in  a  towering  passion. 

"Fidele !  Fi-dele !  where  the  deuce  are  you  hiding, 
you  gadabout?"  Then  he  went  storming  into  the 
kitchen.  "Felicite!  Fe-li-ci-te!  Why  the  devil 
don't  you  answer  ?  Have  you  seen  my  dog  ?  No ! 
— what?  Then  consult  an  oculist  if  you  can't  see 
in  broad  daylight.  .  .  .  Another  thing — what  do 
you  mean  by  unchaining  the  dog?  Did  I  tell  you 
to  keep  it  on  the  chain,  or  did  I  not?" 

"Madame  told  me  to  let  it  loose  in  the  daytime, 
monsieur." 

"Madame?      Am  I  the  master  or  am  I  not." 

"Well,   monsieur    le    comte    told    me    to    obey 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  107 

madame,  and  he  is  master,  being  the  elder,  or  if  you 
are  the  master,  monsieur,  you  will  be  pleased  to  ac 
cept  my  notice.  To  be  called  a  gadabout — 

"I  didn't  call  you  a  gadabout,"  growled  Jacques. 

"You  didn't  call  me  a  coureuse?" 

"Don't  'you'  me,  you  slut!" 

"First  a  gadabout,  then  a  slut — ah,  mais  non,  par 
exemple !" 

"'Twas  the  dog  I  called  a  gadabout — Fidele,  and 
not  Felicite." 

"And  haven't  I  been  'fidele'  to  you  and  yours, 
monsieur  ? 

"I  tell  you  again,  don't  'you'  and  'yours'  me. 
You  wouldn't  dare  to  take  such  a  liberty  with 
monsieur  Andre." 

"Par  exemple!  Why,  of  course  not!  He  is 
monsieur  le  comte,  lui." 

"You're  a  pretty  Republican !" 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?  Can't  a 
Republican  recognise  a  count  that  ought  by  rights 
to  have  been  a  marquis?" 

"We're  all  counts  for  the  matter  of  that,  ma 
pauvre  fille." 

"But  he's  the  only  one  of  any  account,  ma  foil 
In  the  absence  of  madame,  I  take  my  orders  from 
my  master." 

"Then  you'll  take  mine  once  for  all.  If  you 
ever  let  the  dog  loose  again,  I'll — by  God,  woman, 
I'll  wring  your  neck." 

"Je  vous  demande  un  peu!" 

"Don't  stand  there  quivering  and  quaking,  you 
palsied  slattern;  out  of  my  way,  I  tell  you — quick!" 
And  with  a  curse  and  a  stride  my  brother  Jacques 


108  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

flung  open  the  back-kitchen  door,  and  came 
storming  into  the  salle  basse,  where  I  still  sat 
smoking  my  post-prandial  pipe  by  the  fireside. 
Turning  back,  he  closed  the  door;  then  striding 
forward : — 

"Look  here,  Andre,  a  word  with  you,  if  you 
please,"  he  ground  out. 

"If  you  counted  your  words,  my  dear  Jacques, 
you  would  choose  your  expressions  with  some  con 
sideration  for  the  feelings  of  your  listeners." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"You  called  Felicite  a  slut,  yet  she  waits  upon  us 
hand  and  foot.  You  called  her  a  palsied  slattern, 
and  yet  you  would  wring  her  neck." 

"You  told  the  girl  to  unchain  Fidele,  yet  the 
dog  belongs  to  me.  You  make  my  fingers  itch  to 
clutch  you  by  the  throat,  and  yet  you  expect  me  to 
knuckle  under." 

The  veins  swelled  in  his  hands  as  he  grasped  the 
back  of  a  chair;  his  eyes  grew  bloodshot  as  they 
blazed  down  into  mine. 

"Nonsense,"  I  replied :  "I  expect  you  to  knuckle 
under  to  reason,  Listen  to  me.  Your  wife  has 
run  away ;  but  not  as  you  had  feared,  with  Jean  our 
foster  brother,  yet  you  clutched  him  by  the  throat 
on  his  return  from  Raoul  de  Guernon's.  A  moment 
ago  you  threatened  to  wring  Filicite's  neck, 
because  she  had  allowed  your  dog  to  run  free.  And 
now,  because  I  call  you  to  order,  you  would  fly  at 
my  throat  as  well.  A  word  of  advice.  Choose 
another  method  of  attack,  or  people  might  say 
that  your  wife  bolted  to  escape  from  your  clutch 
ing  fingers.  Once  threatened,  twice  cautious." 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  109 

I  kept  my  eyes  upon  his  hands,  as  I  rapped  out 
the  counsel  of  prudence :  for  the  hands  never  lie, 
and  his  were  ever  eloquent  of  his  emotions;  as  I 
watched,  the  chair  shook  in  his  grasp.  Swift  as 
lightning,  I  looked  up  into  his  face:  a  new-born 
terror  contended  with  his  fury  for  the  mastery. 

"Why,  my  poor  Jacques,"  I  exclaimed,  laughing; 
"you  could  scarcely  wring  a  pullet's  neck  with 
hands  so  shaky." 

He  quickly  thrust  the  traitors  into  his  pockets. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  cried,  and  again:  "Oh,  my 
God !  my  God !"  And,  on  the  second  outburst,  he 
flung  up  his  hands  from  the  depths  of  his  pockets, 
and,  in  the  impotence  of  his  shattered  will,  clutched 
the  air.  He  would  have  fled  from  the  room  had 
I  not  held  him  with  the  full  force  of  my  mastery 
over  him. 

"You  perceive  the  strength  of  my  argument,  I 
can  see,"  I  continued.  "Now,  in  your  place,  so  far 
from  exciting  the  suspicions  of  the  observant — 

"If  you  mean  No.  1,  why  don't  you  say  so?  I'd 
precious  soon  show  you  how  I'd  tackle  you — that's 
why  you  slink  like  a  skunk  behind  the  crowd,  is  it  ? 
Come  out  into  the  open — 

"Nay,  nay,  it  is  Fidele  I  would  have  you  send  out 
into  the  open,  mon  pauvre  Jacques.  She  was  de 
voted  to  your  wife — 

« — devoted  to  my  wife!  She  was  no  fonder  of 
Jeannette  than  she  was  of  the  white  cow.  Not  so 
much  even." 

"You  surprise  me.  I  watched  Fidele  closely 
when  Felicite  slipped  her  collar.  With  a  bark  she 
leaped  up  and  licked  the  maid's  face,  and  then  away 


110  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

she  scampered  with  her  nose  to  the  ground.  Had 
she  loved  the  cow  more  than  she  loved  her  mistress, 
she  would  not  have  wasted  a  caress  on  the  woman 
who  let  her  loose." 

"She  would  have  skedaddled  to  the  shippen,  I 
suppose/'  he  scoffed,  "to  cheer  the  cows  with  the 
good  news  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  unearth 
their  companion." 

"Wind,  wind !  No ;  as  the  dog  is  the  only  animal 
that  will  defend  its  master  against  its  kind,  so  it  is 
the  only  one  that  seems  to  have  any  sense  of  sex, 
where  human  beings  are  concerned.  And  Fidele,  in 
pausing  to  thank  Felicite,  meant  to  say :  'You 
like  my  mistress,  are  a  woman,  and  you  love  her 
as  I  love  her.  Thank  you.  I  will  bring  her  back, 
and  then  we  shall  all  three  be  happy  together  once 
more.'  ' 

"Rot!  the  dog'll  never  rest  till  she  has  unearthed 
the  cow,  and  that,  by  God,  I  won't  allow.  Fidele 
must  be  kept  on  the  chain,  or  I'll  not  answer  for  the 
consequences." 

"What  consequences  do  you  mean?  A  dead  cow 
can  tell  no  tales." 

For  a  moment  I  thought  he  would  have  flung 
himself  upon  me.  But  he  thought  better  of  it;  and 
instead,  his  passion  found  vent  in  words. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Andre — if  you  ever 
countermand  my  orders  again,  I'll  strangle  the  cur." 

He  pulled  himself  up  short,  and  buried  his 
twitching  fingers  in  his  coat  pockets.  He  stood 
shamefaced  before  my  quizzical  scrutiny. 

"Everything  comes  to  him  who  waits,"  I  said, 
at  last;  but  before  I  could  lower  my  eyebrows, 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  1 1 1 

he  had  run  across  the  room  to  where  his  horse 
whips  stood  in  their  rack  on  the  wall.  Snatching 
the  heaviest  up,  he  tore  to  the  door,  shouting: — 

"I'll  flay  the  beast  alive :  that'll  be  one  of  the  con 
sequences;  and  then  I'll  show  you,  for  another, 
which  of  the  two  of  us  is  the  stronger  man." 

"I  see  I  have  been  throwing  my  advice  to  the 
dogs,"  I  called  after  him,  with  a  laugh  as  light- 
hearted  as  I  could  force  my  lips  to  utter.  To  my 
ears  it  sounded  forced  and  hollow. 

"Well,  I'll  throw  my  tongue  after  it,"  he  shouted 
back:  "for  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  what  you've 
been  driving  at."  This  last  was  indeed  a  feeble 
hedging  on  his  part. 

With  an  impatient  shrug,  I  shook  off  my  fit  of 
depression,  and  went  into  the  kitchen  on  my  way 
to  the  farm.  Felicite  was  standing  before  her  open 
box,  with  her  back  to  the  door.  She  turned  round 
as  I  entered. 

"My  box  is  packed — will  monsieur  le  comte  be 
so  kind  as  to  visit  it?" 

"Come,  come,  Felicite,  this  will  never  do.  Dry 
your  tears — no,  no,  not  with  that  dirty  apron,  my 
poor  girl !"  .  .  . 

"Monsieur  Jacques  is  more  than  a  handmaid — 

"There,  there,  that  is  enough.  Unpack  your  things 
at  once,  and  then  wash  up.  The  blame  was  mine, 
so  you  must  take  heart  of  grace,  and  think  no  more 
about  it." 

Her  face  brightened. 

"And  Fidele,  monsieur  le  comte?" 

"Well,  we  will  keep  the  dog  on  the  chain  until 
madame  comes  back." 


112  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

' 'Madame,  it  is  said,  will  never  return  .  .  . 
unless  .  .  ." 

I  silenced  her  with  a  look,  and  slipped  out  of  the 
room. 


After  I  had  set  my  men  to  their  afternoon  work 
I  walked  over  the  greves  to  the  home  farm,  to  have 
a  quiet  chat  with  Madame  de  Montviron  or  Lolif. 
By  great  good  fortune,  I  found  her  alone,  her 
daughter  Jacqueline  having  gone  for  a  walk  on  the 
sands. 

"Bon  jour,  monsieur,"  she  said,  emphasising  the 
customary  greeting  with  a  sympathetic  pressure  of 
my  hand. 

"No  news,  madame,  I  suppose?" 

"A  great  deal  of  gossip,  more  is  the  pity,  mon 
sieur  le  comte,  but  news  there  is  none." 

"You  draw  a  very  proper  distinction,  dear  lady," 
I  replied;  then  paused  for  her  to  continue,  en 
couraging  her  to  do  so  with  my  most  winning  smile. 

"Fancy  coupling  Madame  Jacques  du  Quesnoy's 
disappearance  with  Monsieur  Jean's  infatuation !" 
she  exclaimed,  rising  at  once  to  my  bait :  "why, 
it's  as  preposterous  as  putting  the  cart  before  the 
horse,  is  it  not,  monsieur?" 

"Admirably  phrased!"  said  I.  "Perhaps  you  will 
do  me  the  favour  of  contradicting  the  report? 
It  is  absolutely  baseless." 

"I  will,  indeed,  monsieur  le  comte.  There  is 
another  rumour  equally  absurd,  but — no,  I  really 
must  not  say  any  more — " 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  113 

"Some  idle  tittle-tattle  doubtless,  madame?" 
said  I  encouragingly. 

"Well  monsieur,  it  is  a  rather  delicate  subject, 
but  you  know  how  the  vulgar  will  talk."  ... 

"Quite,  quite,  madame!"  and  I  leaned  eagerly 
forward. 

"Well,  monsieur,  those  idle  servants  from  the 
chateau  du  Quesnoy  are  actually  connecting  the 
Marquis  du  Quesnoy's  departure  with  the  fact  that 
Madame  Jacques  left  home  on  the  next  day?" 

"Dismissed!"  I  exclaimed  in  a  voice  toned  to 
carry  conviction. 

"I  am  overjoyed  to  dismiss  it  from  my  mind, 
monsieur — not,  of  course,"  she  quickly  added, 
"that  I  had  the  slightest  inclination  to  believe  the 
scandal  to  be  true.  The  intimacy  between  equals 
is  often  a  stumbling-block  to  a  better  understanding 
between  the  people  and  the  nobility."  She  sighed, 
poor  lady,  thinking  no  doubt  of  her  own  unhappy 
story. 

"And  Mademoiselle  Jacqueline?" 

"She  is  very,  very,  distressed.  ...  So  worried 
and  so  upset,  that  she  makes  me  feel  quite  anxious. 
She  had  a  vivid  nightmare  last  night,  poor  child, 
and  nothing  will  persuade  her  that  the  vision  was 
not  an  actual  fact." 

"Ah?" 

"Would  you  believe  it,  she  dreamed  that  Mon 
sieur  Jacques  was  driving  a  dead,  white  cow  past 
our  house  and  shouting: — 'A  bout,  a  bout!'  at  the 
top  of  his  voice?  It  sounds  more  laughable  than 
terrifying,  does  it  not?" 

I  smiled. 


114  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Set  a  vivid  imagination  to  picture  a  vivid  night 
mare!"  I  replied,  "and  mademoiselle's  imagination 
is,  I  fear,  of  the  high-flown  order — that  is  true, 
is  it  not?" 

She  spread  out  her  arms  with  a  pretty  gesture, 
as  she  exclaimed  in  answer : — 

"Wings,  monsieur,  wings!" 

"Not  too  large  for  the  nest,  I  trust?" 

Her  face  broke  into  a  smile  of  quiet  happiness. 

"Oh,  no,  monsieur!"  she  cried:  "they  are  never 
so  widespread  as  when  they  bear  her  home." 

And,  for  once,  I  felt  that  my  irony  had  been 
misplaced. 

"Impressionable  as  well,  perhaps?"  I  said. 

She  nodded  her  head,  then  breathed  a  gentle 
sigh. 

"You  regret  it,  madame?" 

She  thought  the  question  over.  "Only  for  her 
own  sake,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  would  not  have 
her  different  for  the  world  else.  You  see,  I  love 
her  three  times  over :  once  for  the  past,  once  again 
for  her  father,  who  is  no  longer  here  to  love  her  for 
himself,  and  yet  again  for  her  own  wayward  lov- 
ableness.  No,  no,  it  is  only  for  her  own  sake  that 
I  wish  she  was  less  imaginative,  less  impression 
able." 

Our  quiet  talk  was  then  interrupted  by  Auguste, 
the  farm  man,  who  came  shuffling  up  to  me  with 
his  watery  blue  eyes  timidly  raised  to  the  middle 
button  of  my  waistcoat.  It  was  a  habit  of  his  thus 
to  level  down  his  interlocutor  to  his  own  height. 

"I  hope  you  are  none  the  worse,  sir,  for  the 
trouble  you  are  all  in  down  there?"  he  quavered,  his 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  1 1 5 

eyes  reposing  sympathetically  on  that  part  of  my 
anatomy  in  which  food  is  digested. 

"And  you,  Auguste,  all  the  better,  I  trust,  for  the 
opportunity  it  has  afforded  you  to  express  your  fel 
low-feeling  with  us?" 

His  eyes  sank  a  couple  of  buttons,  as  if  to  lead 
me  to  infer  that  my  courteous  retort  had  lowered 
me  to  that  extent  in  his  estimation.  He  gave  a 
wheezy  chuckle,  then,  dipping  thumb  and  fore 
finger  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  he  took  out  his 
snuffbox. 

"Have  a  pinch,  monsieur?" 

"Thank  you;  I  prefer  tobacco  in  the  leaf." 

"And  mine  in  the  powder — dame!  oui!  Nothing 
so  quickening  to  the  brain  as  a  pinch  of  snuff.  It 
is  astonishing  how  it  clears  the  mind.  Thus  I, 
for  example,  should  have  forgotten  to  ask  you  a 
question  had  I  forgotten  my  snuff-box.  I  take  a 
pinch  and  out  pops  the  question  before  I  have  time 
to  sneeze.  Monsieur,  what  I  should  like  to  know, 
and  what  everybody  I  know  hereabouts  would  like 
to  know,  is  what  you  alone  could  tell  us,  if  I  except 
your  brother,  Monsieur  Jacques.  It  has  been 
puzzling  me,  so  I  can  hardly  sleep  at  nights,  and, 
with  the  winter  on  my  back,  a  white  night  means 
a  black  day,  and  a  gloomy  one." 

He  stopped  speaking  in  order  to  emit  a  sneeze, 
which  sounded  as  if  it  would  tear  his  chest  open. 

"Dame!  The  sneeze  came  first  after  all.  This 
time  I  will  go  straight  to  the  point,  and  not  twist 
and  turn  round  the  crossways,  so  to  speak.  In  a 
word,  monsieur:  what  is  become  of  the  white  cow? 
Is  she  alive  and  a  milker  ?  or  is  she  dead  and  buried  ? 


116  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

If  the  former,  then  Mademoiselle  Jacqueline  must 
have  been  dreaming  last  night.  If  the  latter — 
dame!  it  is  no  wonder.  .  .  ." 

I  had  listened  long  enough.  "Look  up,  Aug- 
uste,"  I  cried  jocularly :  "I  don't  keep  my  brains  in 
my  waistcoat  pocket,  for  the  nimble-witted  to  pick 
them  bare!"  He  raised  his  eyes  at  that,  and  then 
quickly  looked  down  again.  "Now  you  see  more 
clearly,  don't  you?"  I  laughed:  "I  mean,  you  will 
know  better  how  to  deal  with  the  people,  who  ask 
you  inquisitive  questions  about  Madame  Jacques, 
or  about  her  favourite  white  cow.  A  word  to  the 
wise,  Auguste."  .  .  . 

His  eyes  rose  almost  to  my  tie  at  the  compliment. 

"Who  would  have  thought  it  was  a  secret!  not 
I  for  one,  bien  sur,  I  who  wished  to  be  neighbourly. 
But  I  will  take  the  hint,  monsieur,  you  may  rely 
upon  it — such  an  eye  as  you  have  for  telling  a 
man  he  oughtn't  to  have  said  what  he  did  say,  or 
have  been  where  he  was  when  he  said  it."  And  he 
shambled  out  of  the  room,  shaking  his  head  and 
fumbling  for  his  snuffbox.  A  sneeze  from  the 
back-kitchen  told  me  that  he  had  found  it.  I 
turned  to  Madame  de  Montviron  or  Lolif. 

"From  you,  madame,"  I  said,  in  a  confidential 
whisper,  "I  have  no  secrets.  The  white  cow,  you 
must  know  ..."  I  paused,  hesitating  should  I 
tell  her  the  truth,  or  should  I  cloak  it  for  prudence 
sake?  A  quick  gleam  of  curiosity  in  her  patient 
eyes  decided  me  to  take  the  latter  course — "will 
never  know  the  butcher's  knife,"  I  concluded. 
"This  assurance  will,  I  am  sure,  go  far  to  allay 
mademoiselle's  fears.  We  all  know  she  will  not 


CLUTCHING  FINGERS  117 

allow  you  to  keep  poultry,  because  the  hand  that 
feeds  should  never  kill.  I  sometimes  wonder  if 
mademoiselle  has  ever  tasted  roast  chicken.  Does 
she  carry  her  argument  home  to  that  extreme  point 
of  self-denial,  or  does  she  mince  her  logic  when  she 
sits  down  to  dinner?" 

The  spark  of  curiosity  flickered  and  went  out. 
Really,  now,  there  seemed  nothing  more  to  say,  so 
why  should  I  be  the  one  to  prolong  the  interview? 
On  reaching  home,  I  went  upstairs  to  Jean.  In 
the  course  of  our  friendly  talk  he  spoke  of  my  in 
action,  with  amazing  insight  into  its  motive. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "are  you  throwing  dust  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world?  Do  you  think  I  do  not  see  that 
Jeannette's  flight  is  occupying  your  mind  as  much 
as  it  has  emptied  your  heart.  ..."  An  uncanny 
psychologist,  hein? 

.  .  .  Yes,  he  would  have  been  in  the  way;  it 
was  certainly  a  good  thing  that  he  would  be  going 
to  Brussels  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  III 
QUINTILIAN'S  HEXAMETER 

1 

AT  sunrise,  Jean  came  down  and  handed  me  his 
confession,  and  then  I  drove  him  to  the  station  to 
catch  the  first  train. 

When  I  returned  to  the  farm,  it  was  to  learn 
from  Felicite  that  Jacques  had  left  the  house. 

"When  did  he  start?"  I  asked. 

"Immediately  after  monsieur  le  comte." 

"In  which  direction  did  he  go — to  the  greves  or 
to  Val  Saint-Pair?" 

"Dame!      I  was  too  prudent  to  look!" 

"Ah?" 

"Dame!  oui!  Monsieur  Jacques  had  said,  that 
he  would  not  have  any  prying  eyes  about  the  place, 
and  if  I  had  taken  the  merest  peep  through  the 
window  he  would  have  seen  me,  bien  sur.  He  has 
eyes  at  the  back  of  his  head,  has  Monsieur  Jacques, 
ever  since  madame  went  away.  Indeed,  he  seems 
to  be  all  eyes — as  if  to  make  sure  of  not  missing 
her  on  her  return." 

Was  that,  then,  the  explanation  of  his  roving 
gaze,  and  the  sudden  outbursts  of  impatience  or 
fury?  To  me  the  restless  eyes  had  seemed  dazed, 
as  by  some  self-inflicted  blow,  or  some  action  rash 

118 


and  irretrievable.  How  else  explain  the  frame  of 
mind  that  avoided  direct  answers,  or  the  temper 
that  vented  itself  upon  trivialities,  as  who  should 
strive  to  shirk  a  sentence  imposed  in  foro  con- 
scientice?  Should  Felicite  prove  to  be  wrong,  and 
my  growing  fears  to  be  right — Quis,  quid,  ubi, 
quibus  auxiliis,  cur,  quomodo,  quando? 

I  went  out  into  the  fields  pondering  over  Quin- 
tilian's  hexameter,  which  not  only  comprises  what 
in  rhetoric  is  called  the  circumstances,  but  also 
sums  up  the  whole  of  our  criminal  proceedings. 
It  was  bright,  open  weather  after  the  severe  frost, 
the  very  day  for  sowing :  and,  as  I  scattered  the 
grain  to  right  and  left,  I  bent  my  mind  to  reflect 
on  each  question  in  turn :  Quis?  .  .  .  Quid?  .  .  . 
Ubi?  .  .  .  Quibus  auxiliis?  .  .  .  Cur?  .  .  .  Quo 
modo?  .  .  .  Quando?  .  .  . 

And  what  about  my  deductions?  .  .  .  Ah,  so 
evenly  balanced  were  the  pros  and  cons  that  I  could 
have  held  a  brief  on  either  side,  and  spoken  for  an 
hour  without  intermission.  Meanwhile,  to  have 
spied  upon  my  brother  had  been  as  much  against 
my  methods  as  offensive  to  my  sense  of  honour. 
Was  he  not  free  as  I  to  come  and  go,  and  would  he 
not  return? 

Yes;  he  would  return;  and,  just  as  I  had  shown 
neither  resentment  nor  favour  in  tearing  the  dead 
thing  out  of  my  heart,  so,  sine  ira  et  studio,  would 
I  probe  the  mystery  which  lay  hiden  in  his  mind. 

So  deciding,  and  my  sowing  done,  I  returned  to 
the  house,  and  spent  the  interval  between  then  and 
dinner-time  in  the  enjoyment  of  quiet  smoke. 
And  as  I  smoked  I  thought  over  Jean's  story. 


120  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Would  he  continue  it?  ...  Alas,  as  Fate  would 
have  it  be,  the  sequel  was  to  be  read  by  me  on  a 
night  so  dark  that  only  death  could  lighten  it — 
et  encore! 

Who  were  his  father  and  mother,  voyons,  and 
who  the  donor  of  that  allowance  of  5000  francs 
a  year  which  my  mother  would  never  discuss  with 
any  of  us,  and  least  of  all  with  Jean?  ...  I  for 
one  had  always  felt  that  I  might  have  traced  parent 
age  and  income  to  one  source,  if  the  Lady  Bounti 
ful  in  question  had  had  a  face  less  serenely  pure,  a 
mind  less  radiantly  at  its  ease.  Jean,  to  be  sure, 
wore  the  same  look  of  guileless  innocence,  and  yet 
had  won  the  nickname  of  Jean  of  the  Bellows. 
Who  knows? — in  sending  him  to  Brussels  on  my 
service,  may  I  not  have  been  but  an  instrument  of 
that  Providence  which  had  led  his  unknown  mother 
to  entrust  him  to  the  care  of  my  own  mother?  .  .  . 
How  well  I  remember  the  sunny  afternoon  when 
she  brought  him  home,  a  wee  mite  of  scarcely  a 
week  old,  and  how  in  nursing  him  she  found  conso 
lation  for  the  sudden  death  of  my  baby  sister  a  few 
days  before. 


My  meditations  were  interrupted  abruptly  by 
the  ring  of  my  brother's  footstep  on  the  flagged 
courtyard,  followed  by  a  peal  of  abuse  in  that  deep, 
baying  voice  which  he  always  found  in  great  straits, 
or  in  overmastering  anger. 

"Felicite?"  he  called. 

"Oui,  monsieur ?" 


QUINTILIAN'S  HEXAMETER        121 

"Use  my  spade  again,  you  scurrile  draggletail, 
and  you'll  be  out  of  a  situation  without  further 
notice." 

"What  next!  Why,  I  have  never  laid  a  finger 
on  a  spade  since  I  have  been  in  the  house,"  came 
from  the  maid. 

"You  lie !  You  laid  both  hands  on  it,  an  pre 
cious  greasy  hands  they  were,  and  then  left  it  under 
the  hedge  in  the  apple  orchard  by  the  greves.  Don't 
deny  it,  you  prevaricating  slut — I  tell  you  the  shaft 
positively  reeked  of  that  filthy  concoction  you  gave 
us  for  dinner  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"Monsieur  Jacques,  I— 

"Silence,  you  impudent  hussy!  First  you  let  my 
dog  loose,  and  then  you  misuse  and  mislay  my 
spade.  The  next  time  you  do  either  the  one  or  the 
other  I  will  set  you  to  dig  your  own  grave  at  dead 
of  night,  when  the  Leper  of  the  Cross  is  going  his 
rounds." 

The  next  moment  he  burst  into  the  salle  basse. 

"Good  Heavens,  man !"  he  stormed :  "how  long 
have  you  been  dreaming  over  the  fire,  whilst  I  have 
been  doing  the  work  of  two?" 

"And  you — have  you  been  digging?" 

"Digging?  No,  I  have  done  with  digging;  you 
shall  do  the  digging  in  the  future — it  reminds  me 
of  the  grave  I  dug  .  .  .  for  the  white  cow  .  .  . 
curse  her!" 

"Sowing,  then?" 

"No,  I've  done  with  the  sowing  too;  you  can  do 
the  sowing,  Andre." 

"Cutting  faggots,  perhaps?" 

"This  time  you  have  guessed  it.  ...       Yes,  I 


122  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

have  been  cutting  faggots  with  both  hands,  savage 
ly — I'm  in  such  bitter  need  of  the  warmth  they 
give.  That's  why  I  fired  up  to  see  you  warming 
yourself,  whilst  I  went  starved  to  the  marrow. 
Come,  make  room,  and  let  me  share  the  blessed 
warmth." 

His  voice  had  calmed  down,  his  face  lost  its 
expression  of  violence.  Reaching  out  for  the  bel 
lows  he  sank  to  a  chair,  and  fell  to  fanning  the  great 
log  at  the  back  of  the  hearth,  until  it  burst  into  a 
crackling  blaze ;  after  which  he  dropped  the  bellows, 
and  opened  his  sinewy  fingers  to  the  flames.  He 
sat  in  silence;  there  was  an  eager  look  of  waiting 
in  his  haggard  eyes :  he  seemed  to  be  nursing  his 
impatience  to  keep  it  from  crying  out.  And 
presently  there  came  the  rumble  of  cart-wheels; 
it  drew  nearer,  then  paused,  to  be  followed  by  the 
click  of  a  gate. 

"Thank  God !      Here  they  are  at  last !" 

So  crying,  Jacques  leaped  to  his  feet  and  ran  to 
the  door. 

"Pierre,  bring  in  a  couple  of  faggots,  and  be 
quick  about  it,"  he  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
"Good  Heavens,  man.  don't  keep  me  shivering  in 
the  cold!" 

His  impatience  growing,  he  hurled  himself  out 
of  the  room;  I  could  hear  his  pattering  footfall 
as  he  rushed  down  the  drive  in  his  wooden  shoes. 
He  was  back  again  in  a  moment,  carrying  two  bun 
dles  of  firewood;  these  he  heaped  upon  the  burning 
fuel,  and  then  resumed  his  seat  in  the  ingle-nook. 

The  heat  was  intense.  I  withdrew  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  He  broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 


QUINTILIAN'S  HEXAMETER        123 

"Thought  I  could  sit  you  out;  a  burning,  fiery 
furnace  wouldn't  be  hot  enough  for  me.  I  have 
something  dead  inside  me,  vois-tu,  which  makes  me 
cold  as  ice;  my  very  bowels  are  numb,  my  brain 
alone  is  on  fire.  I  could  split  my  head  open  to  let 
the  flames  out,  and  open  my  mouth  wide,  to  let 
them  lick  their  way  down  to  my  frozen  intestines. 
As  a  dipsomaniac  thirsts  for  strong  drink,  so  I 
crave  for  the  white  heat  of  fire.  Heat,  light,  and 
flame  in  one  consuming  fire,  a  fire  that  would  warm 
a  corpse,  that's  what — tiens!  Dinner-time  already, 
Felicite  ?  What  have  you  got  for  us,  heinf" 

He  rose,  took  off  his  cap,  and  hung  it  on  the  peg 
next  to  mine. 

The  leper's  bell  stood  on  a  bracket  above. 
"Soupe  a  la  graisse,  monsieur." 
"Boiling?"  " 
"Bubbling,  monsieur." 
"Lucky  for  you.      What  to  follow  ?" 
"Une  blanquette  de  veau,  monsieur." 
"Piping  hot,  please;  it's  a  flabby  dish  else.    What 
comes  next?" 

"Un  pot  an  feu  cuit  a  poin,  monsieur." 
"Let  it  be  to  the  boiling  point  then.     What  else?" 
"Des  beignets  aux  pommes,  monsieur." 
"Apple  fritters?     Tiens!  she'll  like  them.     Now 
serve  the  soup." 

He  ate  voraciously,  as  though  devoured  by 
hunger;  he  drank  glass  after  glass  of  cidre  bonche 
at  a  single  gulp,  as  though  parched  by  thirst;  and, 
by  the  time  the  meal  was  over,  he  had  not  uttered 
one  word. 

He  got  up  and  strode  to  the  hat-pegs. 


124  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"I  ate  to  keep  that  uninvited  guest  of  mine  from 
gnawing  at  my  vitals,"  said  he;  "as  I  drank,  in  the 
hope  of  making  her  drunk.  As  for  me,  I  have  no 
appetite,  I'm  benumbed  to  my  heart's  core." 

"You  seem  to  have  plenty  of  food  for  reflection," 
I  remarked. 

"More  than  I  could  stomach,  or  ever  shall,"  he 
replied. 

In  snatching  up  his  cap,  he  knocked  down  the 
leper's  bell;  it  fell  with  a  moaning  clang. 

"Eerie  sound  that,  heinf"  said  he.  And  then 
stood  arrested  as  by  a  sudden  thought.  Oblivious 
of  my  presence,  he  fell  into  a  muse;  his  deep  chest 
panted  as  he  breathed.  His  eyes  shone  as  one 
inspired.  .  .  . 

"What!  buried  in  thought  again?"  I  cried. 

"Buried  is  the  word,"  he  replied;  then  left  the 
room  on  a  burst  of  laughter,  of  triumphant  laughter. 

"You  might  have  spared  me  the  trouble  of  pick 
ing  up  the  leper's  bell,"  I  called  after  him. 

"Sorry — my  thoughts  were  so  far  away  from  it, 
you  see,"  he  shouted  back. 

"The  luckiest  find  I  ever  made !"  I  exclaimed,  as 
I  set  my  treasure  on  the  bracket. 

Had  he  heard  the  exclamation?  Or  was  the 
laugh  that  followed  an  echo  of  his  own  dis 
traction  ? 

I  did  not  see  him  again  until  he  came  in  for 
supper. 

"You  look  worn  out,"  I  said  in  greeting :  "quite 
run  down." 

"I  wish  I  could  run  them  down,  the  pair  of  them. 
Not  a  trace  though.  Je  suis  a  bout  .  .  ."He  broke 


QUINTILIAN'S  HEXAMETER        125 

off  to  call  Felicite,  after  a  glance  at  me,  furtive  and 
swift 

"Let's  have  supper  at  once,"  he  continued,  as  she 
entered.  "I  want  to  go  to  bed  early  to-night." 

The  maid  bustled  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"The  thing  is,  Andre,  to  slip  past  midnight  in 
one's  sleep,  heinf  If  I  can  do  that,  I  shall  awake 
a  new  man." 

He  must  have  slept  past  the  witching  hour,  for 
his  snoring  kept  me  awake  until  after  one  o'clock; 
yet  the  look  of  haggard  unrest  was  more  pronounced 
than  ever  when  he  joined  me  at  petit  dejeuner  next 
morning. 

"What  in  the  world  were  you  doing  all  yesterday 
afternoon?"  I  asked,  as  he  sat  down,  and  poured 
himself  out  a  cup  of  black  coffee. 

"Killing  time,  as  I  intend  to  do  to-day,"  he  re 
plied.  "Your  questions  exasperate  me,  I'll  answer 
no  more.  I  came  down  to  break  my  fast,  and  not 
to  be  cross-examined  like  a  criminal  in  the  dock." 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  gulped  down  his  coffee, 
thrust  a  couple  of  petits-pains  into  his  pocket,  and 
turned  to  go  out;  then,  his  excitement  subsiding  as 
suddenly  as  it  flared  up,  he  loitered  on  the  way, 
stopping  now  to  pick  up  a  box  of  matches  on  the 
floor,  and  now  to  fill  his  tobacco  pouch.  He  seemed 
only  to  be  waiting  for  me  to  say  something,  to  patch 
up  a  peace.  The  silence  remaining  unbroken,  he 
swung  around  and  faced  me. 

"If  there's  one  thing  I  hate  more  than  your 
questions  and  your  scrutiny  put  together,  it's  your 
secretive  silence,"  he  burst  out. 

"Are   you   not   a   little   unreasonable,   come?"   I 


126  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

remonstrated.  "I  attempt  to  open  a  not  unfriend 
ly  conversation  by  taking  an  interest  in  your  doings, 
as  a  brother  should,  and  you  as  good  as  tell  me  to 
hold  my  tongue.  I  take  the  broad  hint,  and  you 
practically  challenge  me  to  speak  out." 

"You'd  argue  that  white's  black,"  he  fumed. 
"You  treat  me  as  if  I  were  the  offender,  yet  you 
know  I'm  the  sufferer.  D'you  hear?  I  was  the 
sufferer,  and  driven  mad  with  the  jealousy  he  had 
kindled.  Ay,  by  God,  and  I'm  the  sufferer  still. 
D'you  think,  because — because  she  did  a  bolt 
that  that  reverses  the  positions?  Nothing  has  re 
versed  them,  nothing  ever  will,  because  nothing 
ever  could.  She — she — she  slipped  away  under 
my  very  nose,  without — yes,  without  a  single  pang, 
glorying  in  the  torture  that  would  be  mine.  .  .  . 
How  do  I  know  it? — D'you  think  I  can't  read  the 
questions  on  your  face?  I  tell  you,  Andre,  if  I'd 
taken  her  by  the  throat  and  wrung  the  life  out 
of  her,  she  would  have  gone  without  a  whimper 


He  seemed  to  have  lost  all  control  over  him 
self.  His  words  sounded  ugly,  ominous  in  my 
ears. 

"How  do  I  know  it?"  he  cried,  "good  God,  man, 
I  know  it  because  she  hated  me  with  a  hatred  so 
cold  and  so  hard  that  nothing  I  could  do  would 
soften,  much  less  melt  it.  She  used  the  hatred  as  a 
stone  to  beat  down  my  passion  for  her.  She  would 
fling  it  in  my  face  if  I  awoke  her  with  a  kiss; 
shower  it  down  on  me  like  rain  if  I  pleaded  for  bet 
ter  usage;  and  then  would  cast  it  in  my  teeth  that 
our  marriage  was  barren  as  the  sands.  That's 


QUINTILIAN'S  HEXAMETER        127 

why  I  know  it!"  He  stood  panting  for  breath, 
lost  to  all  but  the  memory  he  had  evoked.  His 
eyes  grew  black  as  he  flashed  out  anew. 

"She  loved  children,  and  so  did  I.  That  was 
my  one  great  hope.  Where  I  had  failed,  a  child 
might  succeed.  For  love  of  it,  might  she  not  grow 
to  love  the  man  who  had  given  it  to  her?  No,  by 
God !  She  steeled  her  heart,  choosing  rather  to  re 
main  childless  than  to  owe  the  child  to  me.  'Why  did 
you  marry  me,  then?'  I  asked  her  once.  She 
wouldn't  answer  in  words;  but  the  smile  on  her 
face  was  stealthy  and  pitiless  as  the  hatred  she  bore 
me.  Why  did  she  marry  me,  d'you  think?  Was 
it  perhaps  a  sudden  infatuation  on  her  part,  because 
I  was  strong  as  Samson — and  a  woman  like  Jean- 
nette  admires  strength,  ay,  sheer  physical  strength? 
Or,  again,  was  it  because  she  couldn't  have  Gerard 
du  Quesnoy  in  any  other  way?  Single  she  must 
resist  him;  married,  she  might  yield  and  no  one  be 
the  wiser?  Her  passion  for  him  equalled  mine  for 
her,  with  this  difference — that  she  would  slake  it 
sometimes  on  a  Jean  of  the  Bellows,  whereas  I 
could  find  no  comfort  in  any  other  woman — so  long 
as  she  lived.  .  .  .  Well,  she's  dead  to  me  now,  and 
yet — who  knows?  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  might  be  foolish 
enough,  mad  enough,  besotted  enough,  to  love  her 
still  if  she  would  come  back  to  me  in  the  warmth 
of  the  flesh;  .  .  .  but  in  the  bloodless  cold,  the 
eternal  chill  of  the  spirit — nay,  by  God!  I  have 
had  enough  of  that  visitation!"  .  .  . 

Drawing  up  a  chair  to  the  table,  he  sat  down  op 
posite  to  me.  His  eyes  fixing  themselves  on  mine, 
he  leaned  forward  on  his  elbows,  his  head  resting 


128  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

in  the  cup  of  his  left  hand,  his  right  forefinger  em 
phasising  each  word. 

"Jean  of  the  Bellows?  Allans  done!  a  makeshift 
befooled  like  the  rest  of  us;  and,  like  the  rest  of  us, 
a  mere  warming-pan  for  Gerard  du  Quesnoy.  .  .  . 
Yes,  for  Gerard  du  Quesnoy,  the  holder  of  your 
title  and  estates,  the  seducer  of  the  family  honour, 
the  man  for  whose  sake  she  had  made  you  serve  as 
a  lure  to  clinch  an  adulterous  intrigue — you,  the 
man  of  honour  and  scrupulous  moralist,  the  knight 
without  fear  and  without  reproach!  .  .  .  Ay, 
well  may  you  clench  your  hand  as  upon  a  hilt.  .  .  . 
Have  at  him,  Andre !  Hack  the  dog  in  pieces ! 
Avenge  your  honour  and  mine!  And,  while  you 
are  about  it,  the  honour  of  the  woman  who  bears  his 
name,  Claire  du  Quesnoy — or  will  you  leave  that  to 
Leon  de  Tesson?"  And  his  laugh  was  nasty  to  hear. 

I  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes : 

"The  Marquise  du  Quesnoy,"  I  said,  "is  a  pure 
and  noble  woman :  make  no  mistake  there,  Jacques." 

"Looks  a  pure  woman,  you  mean!"  he  scoffed. 
"Believe  me,  she  eats  bread  like  the  rest  of  her  sex, 
does  Claire,  Marquise  du  Quesnoy !  Honour  ?  — 
in  a  woman  when  she  is  in  love !  Wait  till  you're 
married  and  you'll  quickly  be  undeceived.  Don't 
tell  me !" 

He  waited  for  me  to  speak.  Instead,  I  rolled  a 
cigarette  and  lit  it.  His  passion  had  rung  true, 
his  face  reflected  his  emotion.  .  .  .  Then  why  did 
I  hesitate  to  make  common  cause  with  him?  It 
was  not  what  he  had  said,  but  what  he  had  left  un 
said,  unexplained,  which  gave  me  pause. 

"I  know,  I  know,  you  must  wait  for  the  telegram 


QUINTILIAN'S  HEXAMETER        129 

from  Brussels,"  he  continued.  "Well,  I  have 
thought  it  all  out.  Listen.  You  will  have  heard 
from  Jean  by  six  o'clock  this  evening,  at  the  latest. 
If  you  drove  to  Foligny,  you  could  catch  the  night 
express  to  Paris.  The  sooner  you  pack  up  the  bet 
ter.  ...  A  sudden  idea,  Andre :  I  will  ride  to  Lit- 
tremont  if  you  like,  and  wait  for  the  telegram.  It 
would  save  a  good  deal  of  time,  and  ensure  your 
catching  the  express." 

Again  I  hesitated.  Was  it  because  he  seemed 
too  eager?  .  .  . 

"You  see,  I'm  as  impatient  to  see  you  gone  as 
you  must  be  to  go.  Have  you  not  chosen  to  fight 
my  battle,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  are  not  our 
quarrels  one?" 

"I  don't  think  I  need  trouble  you  Jacques.  The 
telegram  will  reach  me  soon  enough." 

"Soon  enough?  Good  God,  man!  If  she's  not 
with  Gerard  du  Quesnoy  at  this  moment,  then  she 
must  have  met  with  an  accident  on  the  way  to  him, 
and  he  will  come  here  in  search  of  her.  Be  the 
first  to  strike  the  blow,  Andre!" 

"I,  too,  am  half  inclined  to  fear  that  she  never 
got  clean  away,  Jacques.  It  would  set  our  minds 
at  rest  if  you  would  let  your  dog  loose." 

"What  good  would  that  do?" 

"It  would  prove  whether  or  no  she  got  clear  of 
this  neighbourhood." 

"Allans  done!  Of  course,  it  would  prove  that 
the  white  cow  lies  where  I  buried  her,  but  nothing 
more." 

"You  still  think  that  the  white  cow  was  the  ob 
ject  of  the  dog's  attachment  ?" 


130  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Very  well,  then,  I  would  suggest  our  making 
one  experiment,"  I  mused.  "We  will  unchain 
Fidele,  and  follow  where  she  leads.  If  she  stops 
where  you  buried  the  cow,  we  will  dig  the  beast  up, 
and  watch  Fidele's  behaviour." 

"What's  the  use  in  your  beating  about  the  bush?" 
he  burst  out  furiously.  "If  you  suspect  me,  say  so 
like  a  man,  and  take  the  consequences." 

"I  never  make  rash  accusations.  I  advise  you  to 
follow  my  example,  and  refrain  from  jumping 
rashly  to  conclusions." 

"Andre,  I'll  give  you  one  more  chance.  Will 
you  let  me  go  to  Littremont  for  the  telegram,  or 
will  you  not?" 

"You  may  go  for  the  telegram,  if  you  will  test 
Fidele's  affection  for  the  white  cow  in  the  way  I 
suggest." 

With  an  oath,  he  had  jumped  to  his  feet,  and, 
in  a  stride,  grabbed  his  cap  and  stalked  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  me  standing,  in  imagination,  beside 
a  closed  grave. 


CHAPTER  IV 

JACQUES    CALLS   ON    THE   PROCURATOR  OF  THE 
REPUBLIC 

IT  must  have  been  well  past  nine  o'clock  before  I 
set  about  my  daily  labours,  but  when  I  fell  to  I 
worked  with  such  energy  that  by  dinner-time  I  was 
tired  out.  Jacques  had  not  returned. 

The  lonely  meal  over,  I  went  out  to  superintend 
the  bottling  of  our  yearly  supply  of  cider,  but  my 
heart  was  not  in  the  job.  Every  now  and  then  I 
would  run  to  the  drive  gates  to  watch  for  Jacques, 
and  it  was  there  that  a  telegram  from  Jean  was 
handed  to  me  at  dark. 

I  opened  the  telegram,  and  read  it  by  the  light  of 
my  lantern.  "French  Consulate  Odessa"  was  the 
message.  I  looked  at  my  watch :  it  was  a  quarter 
to  seven. 

"The  closed  grave  must  be  opened  before  I 
leave,"  I  said  aloud,  and  turned  towards  the  house. 

An  outburst  of  derision  answered  me.  I  swung 
round,  raising  the  lantern  above  my  head.  I  had 
been  so  absorbed  that  I  had  heard  not  a  sound  of 
approaching  footsteps. 

The  light  fell  on  my  brother's  face :  it  wore  an 
expression  of  ironic  confusion. 

"My  embarrassment  couldn't  well  be  greater 
131 


132  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

if  I'd  been  caught  eavesdropping,"  he  said,  as  he 
sauntered  across  the  road  and  swung  the  gate  open. 
"As  for  the  curiosity,  mon  bon,  I'll  see  you  damned 
before  I  will  satisfy  it.  The  white  cow  shall  be  dis 
interred  when  it  suits  me." 

"Then  the  sooner  the  better." 

"Oh,  indeed !" 

The  curt  reply  was  toned  to  a  shrug  of  his 
square  shoulders. 

We  walked  up  the  drive  in  silence. 

"I'm  hungry  as  a  wolf — have  had  nothing  to 
eat  all  day,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  to  supper. 
"In  the  morning,"  he  continued,  unconcernedly, 
"I  ran  up  to  Littremont  to  see  the  procurator  of 
the  Republic." 

He  glanced  down  at  me  to  mark  the  effect  of 
the  announcement,  munching  his  food  noisily  the 
while,  a  habit  which  he  knew  never  failed  to  disgust 
me.  I  raised  my  eyebrows,  as  much  to  express 
my  disapproval  of  his  table  manners  as  to  pay  a 
silent  tribute  to  the  success  of  his  surprise. 

"The  procurator,"  he  mumbled,  "most  friendly 
and  sympathetic.  Despatched  the  six  gendarmes 
to  make  inquiries  at  the  neighbouring  railway 
stations."  His  words  were  so  munched  together 
with  his  food  that  I  had  some  difficulty  in  under 
standing  him.  "Well,  I  returned  to  Littremont 
in  the  course  of  the  afternoon — about  5.15,  to  be 
precise;  and  they  had  just  got  back.  Nobody  an 
swering  to  Jeannette's  description,  my  dear  Andre, 
has  left  the  district  by  train  since  the  midnight 
snowstorm  of  last  Monday.  .  .  .  Jean  said  she 
might  have  fallen  into  a  snowdrift  for  all  we  knew 


JACQUES  CALLS  ON  PROCURATOR  133 

— d'you  remember?  .  .  .  And  I'm  more  than 
ever  afraid  that  she  may  have  met  with  some  such 
misadventure." 

"I'm  delighted  you  have  taken  this  step,  Jacques," 
I  said  to  fill  the  pause;  my  impassivity  seemed  to 
irritate  him,  as  reflecting  his  own  callousness. 

"It  ought  to  have  been  taken  long  before,"  he 
burst  out.  "I  was  a  fool  to  wait  for  you  to  act, 
and  you  were  another  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
Jeannette  had  gone  to  Gerard  du  Quesnoy.  .  .  .  We 
have  wasted  three  whole  days  in  waiting  for  that 
telegram  from  Brussels  —  time  enough  to  have 
cost  her  her  life.  ...  By  God,  Andre,  I  will  never 
forgive  you  if  anything  has  happened  to  her."  He 
was  using  bluster — as  poor  a  substitute  for  indig 
nation  as  for  anxiety. 

"She  may  have  left  by  car,"  I  suggested  coolly. 
My  brother's  sincerity  rang  anything  but  true. 

"Whose  car?"  he  asked. 

"Gerard  du  Quesnoy's — he  keeps  three  cars,  re 
member,  and  may  have  sent  one  to  meet  her  in 
some  secluded  spot  —  say,  for  example,  at  the 
Calvaire  du  Bosquet,  or  the  Lavoir  du  Bois  Guerin." 

"Gerard  du  Quesnoy?"  he  fired:  "you've  got 
Gerard  du  Quesnoy  properly  on  the  brain !" 

"As  you  had  this  morning,"  I  remarked  dryly. 

"This  morning,  this  morning,"  he  growled. 
"Who  remembers  the  morning,  when  it's  night? 
.  .  .  Why,  man,  the  whole  day  lies  between," 
and  he  sank  into  thought :  then  he  resumed.  "The 
Calvaire  du  Bosquet?  Man  alive!  it's  at  the  back 
of  the  other  side  of  nowhere.  And  as  for  the  Lavoir 
du  Bois  Guerin,  there  are  not  a  dozen  people  who 


134  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

could  find  it — it's  said  to  be  so  hidden  away  and 
overgrown." 

"It  was  a  mere  suggestion,"  I  replied.  "But  for 
my  part,  I  could  not  imagine  a  safer  place  for  a 
midnight  assignation.  On  the  south  side,  there  is 
a  gate  opening  into  a  by-path,  which  leads  to  the 
high  road;  on  the  west,  and  hidden  from  view  by 
the  trees  is  a  grotto  where  the  first-comer  might 
find  shelter,  and  on  the  east,  a  stone  shed  (once 
used  as  a  drying- room)  where  the  car  could  be 
garaged." 

He  looked  at  me  with  knit  brows,  as  if  weighing 
something  in  his  mind. 

"I  don't  think  she  has  ever  been  to  the  place  in 
her  life,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  know  I  haven't. 
In  any  case,  if  she  made  an  attempt  to  get  there 
that  night  she  must  have  come  to  grief — the  snow 
was  dense — blinding — there,  she  would  only  find 
her  death."  And  on  the  words  his  manner  seemed 
to  brighten,  as  if  a  load  were  lifting  from  his  spirit, 
until  I  added: 

"And  we,  her  body — sooner  or  later."  And  I 
watched  him  narrowly. 

But  he  was  on  his  guard. 

"I  don't  share  your  suspicions,  Andre,"  he  said. 
"What  did  Jean  say  last  Tuesday  morning? 
Didn't  he  remind  you  that  she  had  resisted  Gerard 
du  Quesnoy  for  years,  and  implore  you  to  speak  up 
for  her?  Instead  of  which  you  fanned  my  cursed 
jealousy  till  I  was  beside  myself  with " 

"Come,  come,  Jacques,  be  fair,"  I  rapped  out, 
with  some  heat.  "What  did  you  confide  in  me 
this  morning?  Did  you  not  assure  me  that  she 


JACQUES  CALLS  ON  PROCURATOR  135 

only  consented  to  marry  you,  in  your  opinion,  be 
cause  she " 

"Not  another  word !"  he  cried,  striking  the  table 
with  his  clenched  fist.  "Don't  drive  me  too  far! 
What  I  said  this  morning  was  wrung  from  a  jealous 
heart  by  your  foul  suspicions.  I  am  come  to  my 
senses  at  last,  and  my  jealousy  of  Gerard  du  Ques- 
noy  is  dead." 

My  fingers  itched  to  hand  him  the  note  I  had 
in  my  pocket : — "Oui,  man  Gerard,  je  suis  toute 
tienne" ;  but  I  resisted  the  temptation  as  mean : 
also,  I  took  his  words  for  what  they  were  worth — 
valueless;  both  in  his  eyes  and  mine;  and  I  showed 
him  the  elegram  instead. 

He  perused  the  message  with  a  scornful  eye, 
then  rolled  it  into  a  pellet  between  the  palms  of  his 
hands,  and  filliped  it  over  his  shoulder  into  the 
fire,  without  a  word 

What  was  he  driving  at?  Why  this  sudden 
change  of  attitude?  I  was  mystified — and  dis 
trusted  him  more  than  ever. 

It  was  I  who  re-opened  the  conversation. 

"What  did  you  tell  the  procurator?"  I  asked. 

"The  truth,  of  course,"  he  replied,  speaking  with 
his  mouth  full. 

"Might  I  be  allowed  to  share  the  truth  with 
him?" 

"'I've  no  objection.  We  had  had  a  bit  of  a  tiff 
at  supper,  I  told  him,  Jeannette  and  I,  and  when 
the  squabble  was  at  its  height  I  slipped  away  to 
attend  to  the  sick  cow.  On  my  return  she  was 
gone.  That's  what  I  told  the  procurator.  Even 
you  can't  improve  on  the  truth " 


136  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"As  you  endeavoured  to  do,  by  the  way,  when 
you  showed  me  that  pathetic  little  note  of  hers, 
which  must  have  been  written  some  months  be 
fore." 

"That  was  a  lie,  I  admit,"  he  replied :  "I  wanted 
to  win  all  your  sympathy."  And  he  tried  to  laugh 
off  his  confusion. 

"And  how  did  you  explain  our  apparent  inac 
tion?"  I  asked.  "For,  of  course,  you  would  not 
give  your  wife  away,  with  or  without  a  tangible 
proof." 

"Damn  your  irony!"  he  shouted.  "My  wife's 
honour  was  not  in  question,  and,  having  nothing 
to  hide,  I  stuck  as  close  to  the  truth  as  you  your 
self  would  have  dared  to  go.  .  .  .  Didn't  I  tell 
the  procurator  that  I  had  driven  out  in  search  of 
her  as  soon  as  I  had  found  her  gone !  .  .  ." 

I  looked  up  with  a  frown.  .  .  .  "Why  dared?" 
...  I  interrupted,  incisively. 

He  flushed  with  confusion,  buried  his  face  in 
the  steaming  bowl,  masticating  his  food  noisily 
the  while.  I  rose  from  the  table  and,  striding 
forward,  said:— 

"I'm  in  the  habit  of  sticking  to  the  truth,  and  not 
merely  as  close  to  it  as  you  might  dare  to  go, 
mon  frere.  Another  habit  of  mine  is  to  stick  to 
the  point.  I  repeat,  then,  why  dared?" 

There  was  an  uneasy  growl  in  his  voice  as  he 
flung  out  his  reply: — 

"Irony,  mon  frere,  voilal  You're  not  the  only 
man  that  can  stick  to  the  truth,  damn  you!  An 
other  thing  I  told  the  procurator  was  that  your 
wheels  followed  close  upon  mine.  .  .  .  But  that's 


JACQUES  CALLS  ON  PROCURATOR  137 

neither  here  nor  there.  Had  to  consider  her  hon 
our,  you  know,"  he  ironically  added. 

"Come  to  the  point,  then.  Your  wife's  hon 
our  is  not  what  I  am  investigating,  but  your  own 
actions." 

"Where  was  I?  ...  Oh,  yes!  ...  I  then 
made  a  clean  breast  of  my  remorse  for  losing  my 
temper  with  Jeannette;  and  the  procurator,  being 
a  married  man  himself,  thought  it  only  fair  to 
remind  me  that  it  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel.  As 
for  the  intervening  days,  I  pleaded  our  reluctance  to 
call  upon  the  police  for  assistance,  since,  as  we  first 
believed,  she  might  only  be  staying  with  friends  in 
the  neighbourhood,  or,  possibly,  in  Paris.  Her  con 
tinued  silence  had,  however,  overborne  every  other 
consideration :  and  there  I  was,  anxious  as  a  hus 
band  could  be,  to  put  the  case  in  more  competent 
and  experienced  hands." 

"Thank  you.  You  have  acted  wisely.  People 
had  begun  to  talk,  and  the  course  you  have  taken 
can  scarcely  fail  in  silencing  them." 

"Let  them  talk,  the  back-biting  gnats!  To  my 
face  they  are  civil  enough  anyway.  D'you  think 
I'm  afraid  of  what  they  whisper  behind  my  back?" 

"No,  I  do  not;  but  I  do  expect  you  to  lay  store 
by  the  family  honour — that  anyway  is  not  a  fit 
subject  for  the  exercise  of  your  ill-timed  irony." 

He  rose  leisurely  to  his  feet,  and  went  to  the 
mantelpiece  for  his  pipe  and  tobacco. 

"Before  I  forget,"  said  he,  as  he  picked  up  the 
pipe,  "I  have  offered  a  reward  of  five  hundred 
francs  for  her  discovery."  He  struck  a  match,  lit 
his  pipe,  and  then  resumed  his  seat.  "I  only  wish 


138  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

I  could  afford  ten  times  the  amount,"  he  added, 
then  fell  to  smoking  leisurely. 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  double  the  reward, 
Jacques,"  I  presently  added. 

He  glanced  at  me  sharply,  as  if  suspecting  a 
trap;  then: — 

"Will  you?  That's  really  kind  of  you.  I  accept 
your  offer  gratefully.  A  thousand  francs  should 
raise  the  country,  and  by  this  time  to-morrow 
we  should  be  relieved  of  our  worst  anxiety — no, 
not  ours;  I  was  forgetting,  you  will  have  left  for 
Russia  by  then— 

"Hardly,"  I  smiled,  "since  you  have  just  assured 
me  that  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy  plays  no  part  in 
your  wife's  disappearance.  No;  I  stay  here,  and 
help  to  look  for  her." 

He  bent  quickly  over  the  fire,  as  if  to  re-light 
his  pipe. 

"Please  yourself,"  he  growled.  "Only  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  meet  the  fellow  on  your  own  ac 
count." 

I  remained  silent;  and  we  sat  on,  smoking,  each 
buried  in  his  own  thoughts. 

Again  and  yet  again  I  asked  myself  the  ques 
tion  :  Why  this  incredible  change  of  tone,  style,  and 
bearing — why  this  transformation?  Was  it  because 
he  knew,  now,  that  Jeannette  was  not  with  the 
marquis?  How,  then,  account  for  his  anxiety,  that 
I  should  still  leave  for  Russia  ?  That  he  had  thrown 
dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  procurator  of  the  Republic, 
I  felt  certain.  Had  he  not  good  reason  to  feel 
equally  certain,  however,  that  he  could  not  throw 
dust  in  mine?  .  .  .  Hence,  I  must  be  got  out  of 


JACQUES  CALLS  ON  PROCURATOR  139 

the  way.   But  why?  .   .    .    And  now  my  suspicions 
struck  deeper  root.  .  .  . 


I  rose  at  length  with  a  yawn,  and  bade  him 
good-night. 

"Tired?"  he  asked,  with  something  of  his  old 
winning  smile.  And  I  had  never  distrusted  him 
more  than  in  that  moment. 

"There  is  not  another  drop  of  oil  left  in  my 
lamp,"  I  answered. 

"Nothing  like  sleep  for  replenishing  the  supply. 
It's  the  best  generator  going."  And  he  wrung 
my  hand  affectionately;  then  slipped  away  to  his 
room. 

I  was  fast  asleep  before  he  had  begun  to  snore. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   TORTOISESHELL   HAIRPINS 


I  WAS  awoke  by  Fidele's  howling  in  the  court 
yard.  With  a  bound  I  was  out  of  bed,  and  throw 
ing  open  window  and  shutters.  The  night  was 
starless  and  overcast. 

"Lie  down,  Fidele,"  I  softly  called,  "or  you'll 
awake  your  master." 

She  stirred  restlessly  in  her  kennel,  then  flew  out 
to  the  length  of  her  chain  and  whined  disconso 
lately. 

I  lit  the  lamp  in  order  to  see  the  time.  It  was 
two  o'clock.  .  .  . 

The  house  seemed  strangely  still.  I  stole  to  the 
door,  and  opening  it,  hearkened  towards  my 
brother's  bedroom  across  the  landing.  There  was 
not  a  sound  from  within.  .  .  . 

Had  the  dog  awoke  him,  too? 

"Jacques,  are  you  awake?"  1  cried. 

There  came  no  answer — save  a  deep,  baying  howl 
from  the  dog. 

In  ordinary  circumstances  —  say,  for  example, 
on  any  night  in  the  past  up  to  his  marriage — I 
should  not  have  hesitated  to  cross  the  landing 
and  enter  my  brother's  room;  it  would  then  have 

140 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS    141 

been  the  most  natural  thing  to  do,  the  repetition 
of  many  a  sleepless  night  spent  at  each  other's  bed 
side,  smoking  and  chatting.  But  now  I  would 
not  have  sought  him  out  on  any  account,  strong  as 
was  the  longing  to  do  so.  ...  Why?  .  .  .  Was 
it  because  I  was  afraid  lest  my  suspicions  should 
steal  a  march  on  my  scruples?  Or  was  it  because 
the  evidence  of  my  eyes  might  cause  me  to  blush 
for  my  distrust?  .  .  . 

With  an  impatient  sigh,  I  returned  to  the  window 
to  close  the  shutters.  As  I  turned,  there  came 
another  howl,  prolonged  and  mournful,  followed 
by  the  clank  of  the  chain,  and  by  a  desperate 
struggle,  as  though  Fidele  were  trying  to  slip  her 
collar. 

I  raised  my  voice.  "Will  you  lie  down,  Fi 
dele  !"  I  cried  out  in  anger. 

Once  more  she  gave  way  to  the  drawling,  pitiful 
cry.  I  could  picture  her  shaggy  head  raised  aloft, 
as  to  some  hovering  spirit.  .  .  . 

I  leaned  out  and  drew  the  shutters  to,  and  closed 
the  window;  after  which  I  went  back  to  bed,  and 
sat  up  reading  Fitzgerald's  version  of  Omar's 
Rubaiyat,  comparing  it  with  the  literal  translation 
of  the  original  text,  by  my  compatriot  Nicolas. 

"Be  of  Good  Cheer — the  sullen  Month  will  die, 

And  a  young  Moon  requite  us  by  and  by : 
Look  how  the  Old  one,  meagre,  bent,  and  wan 
With  Age  and  Fast,  is  fainting  from  the  Sky !" 

I  must  have  been  reading  for  more  than  an  hour 
and  a  half,  interrupted  every  now  and  then  by  the 


142  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

dog's  distressful  lament,  when  the  books  slipped 
from  my  knees  to  the  floor,  and  I  sank  back  in  bed, 
and  drew  the  clothes  round  me.  .  .  . 

Had  I  been  sleeping,  or  merely  dozing,  when, 
with  a  creepy  sensation  which  chilled  me  to  the 
heart,  I  bounded  up  in  bed,  listening  to  the  last 
vibration  of  the  leper's  bell,  whose  eerie  note 
seemed  commingled  out  of  all  those  sounds  which 
cause  a  superstitious  lonely  feeling  of  fear?  .  .  . 
The  door  was  ajar,  the  oil  had  burned  low  in  the 
lamp.  .  .  .  Whose  hand  was  it  that  had  set  the 
leper's  bell  ringing  downstairs,  in  the  salle  bassef 

Even  as  I  asked  myself  the  question,  there  rang 
out  upon  the  ensuing  silence  an  oath,  passionate 
and  low : 

"— Cre  Norn!" 

It  was  my  brother's  voice.  Was  he  going  out? 
.  .  .  Or  had  he  just  come  in?  ... 

If  the  former,  I  should  hear  the  front  door  open. 
If  the  latter,  should  I  not  have  been  awakened  by 
the  clank  of  the  heavy  chain,  or  the  grating  of  the 
door  on  the  granite  'sill?  .  .  . 

Wondering,  I  crept  out  of  bed  and  opened  the 
door  a  little  wider,  that  the  lamplight  might  shine 
out  to  meet  him  should  he  come  upstairs;  and  that 
done,  I  returned  to  bed  and  lay  down  as  if  asleep. 

Listening  with  my  eyes  closed,  I  could  hear  him 
moving  very  softly  towards  the  door  of  the  salle 
basse.  ...  It  opened  with  scarce  a  sound.  .  .  . 
And  then,  more  distinctly,  his  footfall  sounded  up 
to  me  on  the  flagged  passage  leading  to  the  front 
door.  ...  In  its  turn  it  too  opened,  cautiously 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS    143 

enough,  but  with  the  familiar  clanking  of  the 
chain,  and  the  scraping  of  the  oak  on  the  stone 
step — Die  merci!  he  was  only  going  out  after 
all.  .  .  . 

Again  I  looked  at  my  watch :  it  was  five  minutes 
past  four.  .  .  .  My  relief  was  so  great  that  it  found 
room  for  a  feeling  of  soreness.  Why  had  he  not 
answered  me  when  I  called  to  him  at  two  o'clock  ? — 
I  lay  nursing  this  trivial  grievance  until  it  was  time 
to  get  up.  .  .  . 


I  was  sipping  a  cup  of  boiling  coffee  when 
Jacques  passed  the  window  and  entered  the  room. 
He  looked  fresh  as  the  morning,  and  happier  than 
he  had  been  since  the  snowstorm.  He  hung  up  his 
cap,  and  then  sat  down  beside  me. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  disturb  you,  old  man,"  said  he, 
slipping  his  great  arm  round  my  waist,  and  giving 
me  an  affectionate  hug,  "when  I  went  out  at  four 
o'clock.  An  unearthly  hour  to  rise,  even  for  a 
farmer;  but  the  fact  is,  I  couldn't  sleep." 

"Were  you  awake  at  two  o'clock?"  I  growled, 
unresponsive  to  the  bear-like  embrace. 

"So  wideawake,  ma  vieille,  that  I  feared  I  should 
never  know  sleep  again." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  answer  me  when  I  called 
to  you  through  the  open  door?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  sudden  spasm  of  fear. 

"The  dog  was  howling  like  a  damned  spirit,  and 
I  longed  for  your  companionship,"  I  continued, 
unrelenting. 

"And  so  did  I  for  yours,"  he  burst  out;  "but 


144  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

fear  had  murdered  sleep,  and  held  me  tongue-tied. 
I  didn't  answer  because  I  couldn't." 

I  gazed  in  wonder  at  the  brawny  giant. 

"Allans  done!  a  d'autres!"  I  laughed:  "That 
is  sheer  nonsense.  You  have  never  been  afraid  in 
your  life.  Fear?  .  .  .  Give  me  a  better  excuse 
than  that.  ..." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  good  five  minutes;  then,  gaz 
ing  into  the  fire,  he  suddenly  spoke  : — 

"Fear — what  a  feeble  word  it  is  for  a  sensation 
so  cold,  and  only  cold  because  it  is  so  naked!  .  .  . 
I  used  not  to  know  what  it  meant,  but  I  have  come 
to  know  it,  Andre.  .  .  .  Three  nights  in  succes 
sion  It  has  stolen  to  my  bedside  as  I  lay  asleep, 
and  put  such  an  edge  on  my  every  faculty,  while 
curdling  my  blood,  that,  though  I  can  see  the  Thing 
Itself  and  hear  Its  breathing:  yes,  though  I  can 
feel  Its  naked  body  slip  in  between  the  sheets,  and 
press  close  up  against  my  own,  freezing  away  its 
warmth  and  power  to  move,  my  brain  is  become  so 
starved  and  so  stagnant  from  lack  of  fluid  blood, 
that  it  is  impotent  to  control  any  of  the  senses — 
sight,  sound,  taste,  smell,  touch — all  thrill  to  the 
horror  that  alarms  them,  and  to  nothing  in  the 
world  else.  Were  I  blind  I  should  smell  It,  as  I 
should  see  It,  were  I  deaf."  .  .  . 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  paced  the  room  rest 
lessly. 

"For  two  hours  last  night  It  lay  in  bed  with  me," 
he  continued :  "in  my  very  arms,  Its  naked  body, 
bloodless  and  fetid  as  a  corpse.  .  .  .  Then  quite 
suddenly  It  left  me,  and  my  will  was  free  to  work. 
In  that  room  It  might  return.  To  get  away  from 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS    145 

Its  lair  was  my  first  and  only  thought.  In  a  fever 
to  be  out-of-doors,  I  tore  on  my  clothes.  My  nerves 
were  on  edge,  my  hands  shook  as  with  palsy.  .  .  . 
For  fear  of  awakening  you,  I  crept  downstairs  on 
tiptoe,  and  stole  into  the  salle  basse.  In  groping 
for  my  cap  in  the  dark,  I  again  knocked  down  your 
leper's  bell — did  you  hear  it  ring?"  .  .  . 
I  nodded :  my  trivial  grievance  was  forgotten. 

"Bougre  de  lourdaud!  .  .  .  Clumsy  lout!"  he 
apostrophised  himself.  "Well,  well,  the  blessed 
daylight  is  come,  and  the  Horror  can't  return  until 
the  night  is  at  its  blackest.  Pour  me  out  a  cup  of 
coffee,  ma  vieille.  This  business  of  Jeannette's  is 
playing  havoc  with  my  nerves." 

"A  la  bonne  heure!  Bravo!"  I  cried.  "I  am 
glad  you  have  not  lost  the  power  of  throwing  off  the 
obsession  in  broad  daylight." 

"The  fact  is,  I  am  beginning  to  hope  that  even 
the  darkness  may  lighten — .  By  the  bye,  why 
didn't  you  come  into  my  room  when  I  didn't  an 
swer  your  call?" 

"Silence  does  not  always  give  consent,"  I  replied, 
lamely  enough.  "Besides,"  I  added,  "you  might 
have  been  asleep." 

"Come,  Andre,  that  excuse  is  sewn  with  white 
thread:  I  wasn't  snoring,  you  know." 

"Well,  I  did  not  like  to  trespass  on  your  privacy." 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed:  "we  used  to  make  pretty 
free  use  of  each  other's  rooms,  didn't  we?" 

"That  was  before  you  married,  and— 

"And  before  your  suspicions  were  aroused?"  he 
quickly  interrupted,  with  a  look  that  dared  me 
to  shirk  the  answer. 


146  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Before  my  perplexity  arose,  rather."  .  .  . 

"Meaning  of  the  slaughter  and  burial  of  the 
white  cow?" 

I  nodded,  and  with  an  effort  forced  myself  to 
meet  his  eyes. 

"You  needn't  blush,"  he  laughed:  "that  brain 
of  yours  must  needs  investigate.  .  .  .  Have  you 
finished  your  breakfast?" 

"Quite." 

"Then  come  along,  and  we'll  unchain  Fidele  and 
be  off  before  the  whole  world  is  abroad." 

We  went  out  into  the  yard. 

"Howling  again  last  night,  heinf  Well,  you're 
going  to  see  the  white  cow  this  morning.  A  pretty 
dance  you  have  led  me  all  week,  you  gadabout!" 
And  he  reached  out  his  hand  to  pat  Fidele.  She 
shrank  away  with  fear,  crouched  down,  and  then 
fell  over  on  her  back,  with  her  paws  turned  up 
wards,  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow.  "A  bas  les  pattest 
Put  them  down,  I  say,  you  cringing  cur !  Nom  de 
Dieu!  Will  you  get  up,  you  worm?" 

"Don't  kick  her,  Jacques — look  at  her  eyes !" 

"It  is  her  eyes  that  make  me  savage,  you  fool. 
They  seem  to  reproach  me,  and  yet  I'm  caving  in 
to  her  whims,  and  to  yours.  Have  you  got  your 
spade?" 

"Par  exemple!  What  a  question!"  I  indignantly 
exclaimed.  "Your  spade,  I  think,  is  more  accus 
tomed  to  the  work." 

Stung  by  the  sarcasm,  he  kicked  out  at  the  dog 
with  such  violence  that  his  sabot  flew  from  one 
end  of  the  yard  to  the  other. 

I  smiled.     "A  narrow  escape  for  you,  Fidele," 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS   147 

I  said,  and  then  broke  off  with  a  laugh,  to  see 
the  angry  giant  go  hopping  in  the  mire  to  rejoin 
his  wooden  shoe.  Having  put  it  on,  he  strode  into 
the  potting-shed,  and  came  back  with  his  spade— 
a  neglected-looking  implement  caked  in  mud:  a 
gentleman  should  keep  his  spade  bright  as  his 
escutcheon,  surely.  .  .  . 

"Unchain  the  dog — it's  seven  already,"  he 
shouted. 

I  let  Fidele  loose.  With  a  bound,  she  was  on  her 
feet,  and  away  down  the  drive. 

"To  heel,  you  brute,  to  heel,  I  say!"  cried  her 
master. 

"Spare  your  breath,  Jacques:  the  dog  is  on 
the  trail  of  a  friend,  remember!" 

"And  you — you  spare  your  sarcasms :  you  better 
had!"  he  retorted,  as  he  swept  past  me  as  hard 
as  he  could  run.  At  the  end  of  the  drive  he  cleared 
the  fence  in  his  stride,  and  dashed  across  country, 
making  for  the  point  where  the  high  road,  along 
which  Fidele  was  running,  crossed  the  track  that  led 
through  our  bottom  meadows  to  the  greves.  The 
weight  of  the  spade  told,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
I  overtook  him.  On  reaching  the  cross-roads,  we 
could  see  Fidele  scampering  in  a  wide  circle  on  the 
wilderness  of  sand  facing  the  leper-house.  With 
her  nose  to  the  ground,  she  shot  suddenly  within 
the  ring,  then  broke  into  a  howl  when  in  full  cry. 

"Quick,  quick!"  cried  Jacques,  and  leaped  the 
grassy  bank  which  separated  our  property  from  the 
salted  meadowlands. 

I  followed  leisurely,  more  intent  upon  Fidele 
than  eager  to  overtake  her;  for,  to  my  amazement, 


148  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

she  had  stopped  running  on  the  very  spot  where 
I  had  found  the  leper's  bell,  in  carting  tangue  to 
manure  our  potato  patch. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  Fidele  seemed  uncertain, 
nosing  the  sea-mud  in  an  ever-widening  circle, 
only  to  return,  more  puzzled  than  ever  to  her 
starting-point. 

By  that  time  Jacques  had  crossed  the  pres-sales, 
and  was  making  his  way  along  the  flats  with  swing 
ing  strides,  his  spade  trailing  behind  him.  Deaf  to 
his  approach,  Fidele  continued  to  sniff  the  ground; 
her  tail  hung  limp,  her  ears  drooped  disconsolate 
ly,  as  if  she  had  struck  a  cross-trail  and  knew  not 
which  to  take.  On  a  sudden,  she  pricked  her  ears, 
her  tail  stiffened;  then,  catching  sight  of  her  mas 
ter  within  a  pace  or  two,  she  took  fright  and  started 
off  in  a  south-easterly  direction.  In  another  second 
she  would  have  got  clean  away,  when  Jacques  laid 
her  low  with  the  flat  of  his  spade. 

I  broke  into  a  run,  my  blood  boiling. 

"Viens  id,  Fidele  I"  I  called,  and  the  dog  came 
gladly.  "To  heel,  old  friend,"  I  admonished,  "and 
you'll  be  safe." 

Nothing  loath,  the  dog  stuck  close  behind  me  for 
protection. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  Jacques,"  I  cried,  as  I 
joined  him:  "the  next  time " 

" — What!"  he  scoffed:  "another  chance  for  my 
life!  The  bolt  does  not  fall  every  time  it  thun 
ders — a  true  saying,  by  God!" 

" — The  next  time  you  lay  hands  on  Fidele,"  I 
continued :  "I  shall  take  charge  of  her  myself.  You 
do  not  deserve  to  own  a  dog." 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS    149 

"Zut!" 

"What  is  your  price,  come?  The  dog  must 
change  masters." 

"I'm  too  good  a  sportsman  to  part  with  her — 
I  wouldn't  sell  her  for  a  fortune,  damn  you !"  said 
he.  with  evident  sincerity,  and  patted  Fidele  on 
the  head.  "She  understands  me  a  damned  sight 
better  than  you  do,  and  can  make  allowances  for 
my  shortness  of  temper.  Yes,  by  God!  she,  at 
any  rate,  can  sympathise  with  me — here,  good  dog, 
seek  her  out! —  I'll  be  hanged,  Andre,  if  I  can 
remember  exactly  where  I  buried  the  sickly  beast." 
His  voice  was  candour  itself,  his  face  strangely 
disarming;  in  a  word,  he  seemed  at  that  moment 
to  have  recovered  his  boyish  attractiveness. 

"Fidele  will  tell  us,"  I  replied,  and,  touched  by 
this  sudden  return  to  his  oldtime  self,  I  held  out 
my  hand. 

He  frowned. 

"I  will  give  you  mine,"  said  he :  "after  we  have 
unearthed  the  white  cow.  Not  before.  Not  likely! 
But  if  you  had  brought  your  spade  along,  I  would 
have  given  you  my  hand  now.  Seek  her  out,  Fidele  ! 
Good  dog !  Bravo !  bravo !" 

Fidele,  thus  encouraged,  circled  round  us,  her 
nose  to  the  ground.  When  she  came  to  a  stop,  it 
was  at  the  same  place  as  before,  and  she  at  once 
fell  to  scratching  and  burrowing  in  a  state  of  ever- 
increasing  excitement. 

"Ay,  that  was  the  place,  I  think.  Here,  Fidele, 
come  in!" 

So  saying,  Jacques  stepped  forward,  and  drove 
in  his  spade,  while  Fidele  stood  aside,  pointing 


150  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

eagerly,  the  tip  of  her  tongue  shining  out  red  be 
tween  her  white  teeth.  The  man  worked  with  a 
violent  energy,  as  though  he  resented  the  labour  as 
reflecting  upon  his  honour,  and  was  anxious  to  jus 
tify  himself  in  my  eyes,  as  speedily  as  a  savage  ex 
penditure  of  strength  could  bring  it  about.  Never 
tiring,  he  dug  deeper  and  deeper,  flinging  the  earth 
now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left,  till  he  was  hidden 
from  sight  between  the  banks.  I  stood  between 
the  mounds  at  one  end,  while  the  dog  moved  round 
to  the  other,  and  crouched  as  if  to  spring. 

Presently,  Jacques  straightened  his  back,  tore 
off  his  coat,  and  then  turned  to  me. 

"Keep  your  eye  on  the  dog,  Andre — no,  go  round 
and  hold  her  in — another  five  minutes  will  see  me 
through." 

I  obeyed  without  a  word.  As  the  grave  grew 
ever  deeper,  I  could  feel  Fidele  straining  to  be  free ; 
and  when  at  last  the  carcass  of  the  white  cow  began 
to  appear,  she  tugged  with  such  good-will  that  she 
dragged  me  to  the  very  edge.  .  .  . 

In  another  minute  the  white  cow  lay  bare,  her 
legs  pointing  upwards,  her  body  ripped  open  and 
disembowelled. 

Using  his  spade  as  a  mainstay,  Jacques  swung 
himself  out  of  the  pit  at  the  far  end,  and  faced  me 
with  a  sardonic  smile  : — 

"Shall  I  heave  out  the  white  cow,  Andre,  and  dig 
a  bit  deeper?"  he  asked. 

Before  I  could  answer,  Fidele  had  slipped  from 
my  grasp,  and  scrambled  to  the  top  of  the  nearer 
mound,  where  she  stood  looking  down  into  the 
grave  and  howling  piteously. 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS    151 

With  a  fierce  oath,  up  sprang  Jacques  and  held 
her  in. 

"Well,  Andre,  are  you  satisfied?" 

"Abundantly."    And  so  I  was,  thank  God. 

Grasping  the  dog  firmly  by  the  collar,  he  stepped 
down,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"There  it  is  then,"  he  said,  and  wrung  my  hand 
till  the  bones  cracked.  "Shall  I  cover  the  cow  up 
again  ?" 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  I  replied  ...  and  the 
next  moment  I  was  aware  that  another  pair  of 
eyes  were  looking  into  the  grave. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  messieurs,"  murmured  the 
voice  of  Jacqueline  Lolif,  "but  for  several  days  your 
dog  has  scratched  at  this  spot.  ...  I  felt  sure  a 
friend  of  hers  must  lie  buried  here." 

"As  you  observe  ...  a  white  cow,  mademoi 
selle,"  I  replied  with  a  reluctant  courtesy;  while 
Jacques,  clenching  his  twisting  fingers,  turned  upon 
her  a  face  contorted  with  passion. 

"Woman's  prying  eyes  as  usual,"  he  rasped  out 
between  his  teeth,  with  a  gesture  so  menacing  that 
the  trembling  girl  drew  back  to  where  I  stood,  as 
if  to  implore  my  protection.  .  .  . 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  as  we  stared  into 
the  grave,  all  three.  I  for  one  was  tongue-tied, 
tossed  back  into  the  sea  of  suspicion,  from  which 
I  had  so  recently  escaped.  If  Jacques  had  asked 
me  then  if  I  were  satisfied,  what  should  I  have 
replied?  My  mind  grew  set  and  stern,  as  it  an 
swered.  "No,  by  God,  /  am  not,  whatever  my  heart 
may  say."  .  .  .  And  Jacqueline  Lolif,  were  her 
clear  eyes  grown  blind  with  terror,  or  had  they  too 


152  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

cried  a  warning  to  her  brain?  .  .  .     Wondering, 

doubting,  fearing,  I  caught  her  steadfast  gaze  upon 

"rne;  it  told  me  nothing,  unless  it  were  to  be  on  my 

guard  against  a  woman's  power  of  dissimulation. 

It  was  an  object  of  very  small  value,  a  thing  so 
slight,  a  handful  of  soil  would  have  covered  it, 
yet  it  leaped  to  the  eye  in  the  clear  sunlight,  and 
seemed  to  fill  the  grave !  I  had  scarcely  grasped  the 
full  significance  of  its  being  there  before  Jacques 
had  released  Fidele  and  begun  to  shovel  in  the 
earth,  while  Jacqueline  slipped  away,  with  a  hurried 
"Au  revoir,  messieurs."  .  ,  . 

The  first  spadeful  that  fell  had  buried  the  tell 
tale  clue  .  .  .  was  it  by  accident,  I  wondered,  or 
had  Jacques,  too,  noticed  the  inconsiderable  trifle 
which  seemed  to  incriminate  him?  .  .  .  One  thing 
is  certain,  Fidele  had  seen  it,  for  before  the  third 
spadeful  fell,  she  had  pounced  down  upon  the  very 
spot  where  it  lay  concealed.  .  .  . 

"Nom  de  Dieu!"  burst  out  Jacques,  and,  lying 
flat  on  the  ground,  he  seized  Fidele  by  the  scruff  of 
the  neck  with  both  his  hands  and  flung  her  over 
the  mound  behind  him.  .  .  . 

In  an  instant,  Fidele  was  on  her  feet,  and  away 
down  the  greves  in  a  south-easterly  direction,  her 
keen  nose  brushing  the  ground  as  she  followed  the 
trail.  .  .  . 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  you  stop  the  dog?"  roared 
Jacques. 

"Did  you  not  want  her  to  find  your  wife?"  I 
retorted. 

"Do  you  think  my  wife  would  have  gone  wander- 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS     153 

ing  over  the  greves  at  that  time  of  night,  and  not 
have  sought  shelter  from  the  snowstorm?"  he  cried, 
his  voice  rising. 

"Look!"  I  replied:  "Fidele  has  swerved  to  the 
south-west,  and  seems  making  for  the  leper-house." 

"A  likely  place  for  Jeannette  to  have  taken  shel 
ter  in !"  he  mocked.  "Dame!  she'd  rather  have  been 
in  her  grave  than  in  the  haunt  of  the  Leper  of 
the  Cross." 

As  though  that  settled  the  question,  he  picked 
up  his  spade,  turned  his  back  on  the  fleeing  dog, 
and  then  went  on  working  with  renewed  vigour. 

I,  on  the  other  hand,  was  more  interested  in 
watching  Fidele's  movements  than  concerned  in 
the  reburial  of  the  white  cow — a  matter  which,  in 
point  of  fact,  had  engaged  my  attention  no  more 
than  it  had  occupied  hers.  At  a  dead  set  during  the 
disinterment,  her  attitude  had  changed  as  swiftly 
as  my  own.  .  .  .  Why  had  she  haunted  the  white 
cow's  grave,  so  long  as  it  was  closed,  only  to  desert 
it  as  soon  as  it  was  opened,  and  that  trifling  object 
stood  revealed?  .  .  .  The  answer  that  would  out 
strangled  my  last  hope  but  one.  .  .  . 

"I  was  right,  Jacques,"  I  said  aloud :  "Fidele  has 
just  disappeared  through  the  central  archway  of 
the  leper-house." 

No  answer  came. 

"That  the  faithful  creature  is  now  on  the  trail 
of  her  lost  mistress,"  I  continued,  "is  to  me  clear 
as  the  day." 

He  worked  on  in  silence.  I  now  noticed  that  he 
was  rilling  in  one  end  of  the  grave  only,  and  that 
it  was  not  the  one  at  which  he  had  begun. 


154  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

A  few  minutes  later,  Fidele  came  bounding  out 
of  the  ruins  in  full  cry ;  she  swept  round  the  farther 
corner,  and  disappeared  to  the  south-east. 

"Jacques !"     My  voice  was  imperious. 

"Well,  what's  the  little  bitch  doing  now?"  he  re 
plied,  without  pausing  in  his  work. 

"She  has  left  the  leper-house,  and  vanished  round 
the  south-eastern  corner." 

He  straightened  himself  on  his  spade  and  faced 
me. 

"I  must  take  a  rest :    I'm  dea'd-beat." 

He  had  cleared  one  mound,  leaving  half  the  grave 
open. 

"Jacques,"  I  said,  completing  my  first  thought, 
"I  would  give  my  life  gladly  to  know  poor  Jeannette 
to  be  still  alive — ay,  even  though  she  were  with 
the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy." 

He  flung  down  the  spade  with  an  oath. 

"Would  you! — she  wasn't  your  wife,  or  you'd 
rather  see  her  lying  dead  at  your  feet,  or  buried 
where  you  stand." 

"Ah?" 

"What  about  the  family  honour,  then?" 

"Jacques,  the  family  honour  might  bear  an  even 
deeper  stain,  or  I  would  never  have  spoken  as  I 
did." 

"Ah!"  he  mimicked  my  intonation,  as  he  re 
peated  the  exclamation  I  had  used. 

"If  it  bear  such  a  stain,  the  culprit  shall  pay  the 
penalty."  I  spoke  slowly,  my  eyes  on  his. 

He  braced  himself,  then  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Seems  to  me,  Andre,  I  may  have  to  bear  my 
wife's  dis " 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS     155 

"Silence — or  yours  will  be  the  greater  fault." 

"Well,  didn't  you  say  very  much  the  same  thing 
yourself?" 

"I  took  an  extreme  case,  as  an  earnest  of  my  ex 
tremity.  Your  pardon,  Jacques." 

"Anyhow,  the  dog  ran  to  the  south-east,  and  isn't 
that  the  direction  of  the  chateau  du  Quesnoy?" 

"It  would  seem  your  fears  are  again  turning  in 
that  direction,"  I  remarked. 

"They  change  every  minute  of  the  day,  in  this 
awful  uncertainty,"  he  cried.  And  I  would  have 
given  my  life  on  the  spot  to  have  had  my  faith  in 
him  restored.  "Come,  take  the  spade,  Andre,"  he 
added :  "and  I'll  follow  the  dog." 

"It  was  not  I  that  killed  the  cow,"  I  replied. 

"You  refuse  to  take  my  place?" 

"I  decline,  yes." 

"A  distinction  without  a  difference." 

"The  distinction  is  one  of  courtesy,  and  that 
makes  all  the  difference." 

"Why  do  you  decline  then?"  he  persisted. 

"What  a  question!"  I  exclaimed,  and  turned 
away. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  now?"  he  called  after 
me. 

"I  am  going  to  send  a  telegram  to  Jean,  for  one 
thing,"  I  answered,  stopping. 

"And  going  to  pack,  for  another?" 

"I  have  not  made  up  my  mind — quite." 

"D'you  mean  you're  still  hesitating  whether  to 
go  to  Russia  or  not?  Don't  you  feel  the  family 
honour  to  be  at  stake  any  longer  ?" 

"On  the  contrary,  more  than  ever  at  stake.     But 


156  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

you  have  convinced  me  that  dishonour  will  not  be 
found  to  lie  in  that  direction." 

"How  so?"  he  asked,  and  I  thought  his  face 
paled  under  the  tan.  "I'm  hanged  if  I  can  under 
stand  you,"  he  added  passionately. 

"You  would  understand  only  too  well,  were  you 
in  my  place,"  I  retorted  bitterly. 

"That's  obvious  even  to  my  obtuse  mind — that 
is,  if  I  shared  your  feelings  when  I  got  there." 

"You  would  not  be  in  my  place,  unless  you 
shared  my  feelings,  Jacques,  but  merely  in  a  posi 
tion  to  judge  them.  .  .  .  My  chief  concern  at  this 
moment  is  to  find  Fidele,  and  bring  her  home. 
Does  that  admission  help  you  to  form  an  opinion 
as  to  why  I  hold  back  in  coming  to  a  decision?"  .  .  . 

He  stooped  to  pick  up  his  spade.  "I  can't  say  it 
helps  me  much,"  he  replied,  with  a  puzzled  frown. 

"In  other  words,  Jacques,  I  had  rather  leave  the 
police  to  find  Jeannette  than  let  your  dog  track 
her  down." 

His  face  cleared.  "You're  in  contradiction  with 
yourself  this  morning,  my  dear  Andre,"  he  said, 
smiling;  and  with  a  leisurely  swing  of  his  arms 
he  flung  a  spadeful  of  soil  over  the  spot  where  lay 
the  damning  clue. 

"Apparently,"  I  added  dryly. 

"Apparently?"  He  leaned  on  his  spade  and 
glanced  at  me,  his  eyebrows  raised.  "Come,  come, 
first  you  let  Fidele  escape  without  stirring  a  finger 
to  stop  her;  then,  when  she's  out  of  sight,  you  say 
you're  all  anxiety  to  overtake  her !  Why  the  devil, 
then,  do  you  dawdle  here  splitting  straws  with 
me?"  He  cast  another  spadeful  of  tangue  on 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS     157 

top  of  the  other  with  a  careless  ease.  "I  call  that 
shilly-shallying,"  he  concluded,  and  dug  in  his  spade 
as  if  to  drive  the  point  home. 

"And  I,  a  counsel  of  prudence,"  I  replied.  Then, 
with  emphasis,  I  added :  "A  mouse  that  has  only 
one  hole  is  easily  caught."  And  on  that  timely 
warning,  I  left  him  that  he  might  get  back  the 
thing  which  only  women  use,  and  which  Jeannette 
had  used  in  abundance.  ...  He  would  not  have 
to  dig  deep  to  find  it:  he  had  covered  it  lightly 
that  he  might  the  more  easily  recover  it.  ... 
Yes,  yes,  he  must  surely  have  seen  the  harmless, 
indispensable  thing.  .  .  . 


So  musing,  and  by  that  subconscious  volition 
which  determines  the  will  and  action  of  the  absent- 
minded,  I  found  myself  at  last  within  the  crumbling 
walls  of  the  leper-house.  There  I  endeavoured  to 
discover  some  explanation  of  the  dog's  going  there : 
the  indentation  of  a  hob-nailed  sabot,  the  faint 
footprint  of  Jeannette's  tiny  shoe,  some  evidence 
that  the  ground  or  masonry  had  been  disturbed 
during  the  past  few  days;  but  there  was  nothing, 
so  far  as  I  could  perceive,  in  bakehouse,  tower,  or 
ruin,  which  might  arouse  suspicion  in  an  impartial 
investigator,  or  confirm  the  most  spiteful  mischief- 
maker  in  his  distrust. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  I  walked  through  the  cen 
tral  archway,  with  the  intention  of  rejoining  my 
brother,  when  I  noticed  that  he  was  gone.  My 
research  had  stolen  more  time  than  I  had  been 


158  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

aware  of.  Still,  the  loss  of  half  an  hour  or  so  was 
insignificant,  in  comparison  with  the  profit  to  my 
peace  of  mind. 

Comforting  myself  with  that  reflection,  I  swung 
round  the  south-eastern  corner  of  the  ruins,  only 
to  see  Fidele  come  bounding  towards  me,  still  intent 
upon  her  search. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  I  dashed  back, 
ran  up  the  first  flight  of  steps  in  the  tower — a  fine 
specimen,  by  the  way,  of  early  Norman  architecture 
— and  stood  watching  in  the  doorway  that  led  to  the 
second  flight. 

As  the  dog  ran  into  the  courtyard  I  saw  that  her 
coat  was  dripping;  and  in  that  instant  she  paused, 
sniffed  the  ground  where  I  had  stood  meditatively ; 
then,  crouching  low,  as  if  to  hide,  sidled  towards 
the  bakehouse,  a  building  stalwart,  massive,  and 
round,  which  dated  back  to  the  thirteenth  century. 

When  she  was  within  a  few  yards  of  her  chosen 
hiding-place,  Fidele  gathered  herself  together, 
and  sprang  through  the  arched  doorway,  and 
disappeared.  .  .  . 

I  ran  down  the  steps,  and  called  softly : — 

"Fidele,  seek  her  out!     Good  dog!" 

With  a  bark,  out  she  rushed,  gambolling  round 
me;  then,  positively  dancing  with  excitement,  she 
led  me  round  the  south-eastern  corner  to  that  barren 
strip  of  land  which  had  served  the  lepers  as  a  vege 
table  garden.  There  she  paused,  looked  back  to  see 
if  I  were  following  her,  and  then  trotted  across 
the  very  middle  of  the  waste. 

She  had  not  gone  more  than  a  dozen  paces  before 
she  stopped  again,  this  time  at  a  dead  set. 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS     159 

I  broke  into  a  run.  On  looking  down,  I  saw  .  .  . 
a  tortoiseshell  hairpin,  of  the  sort  which  Jeannette 
used  to  fasten  up  the  heavier  coils  of  her  hair.  I 
picked  it  up,  and  put  it  into  my  pocket. 

At  the  other  end  of  an  untilled  field,  there  rose 
the  high  wall  of  a  fruit-grower's  peach  garden, 
above  which,  and  about  a  couple  of  hundred  paces 
away,  glistened  the  red-tiled  roof  of  his  dwelling. 
The  path  lay  down  the  length  of  the  wall  towards 
the  house,  and  thither  the  dog  now  turned,  moving 
cautiously  forward,  as  though  the  scent  were 
difficult  to  follow. 

As  we  drew  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  home 
stead,  a  dog  barked  savagely  from  within  the  yard, 
straining  at  its  chain.  And  by  a  curious  chance,  it 
was  there  that  Fidele  again  came  to  a  standstill, 
sniffing  the  ground  eagerly.  I  stooped  and  picked 
up  another  hairpin.  That  they  were  Jeannette's 
I  could  have  no  doubt :  a  dog  is  not  deceived. 
But  what  had  brought  her  there?  I  did  not  try 
to  answer;  following  the  dog  blindly,  and  with  a 
curious  weight  at  my  heart.  Almost  I  was  afraid 
to  go  forward,  from  dread  of  that  which  I  might 
happen  upon.  But  Fidele  harked  back  to  the  ruins, 
nothing  discovered.  And  now  she  went  first  to  the 
bakehouse,  where  she  seemed  positively  to  wallow 
in  a  fresh  scent,  then  trotted  to  the  tower,  and 
pattered  up  the  crumbling  staircase,  her  ears 
pricked,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Follow  me."  (If  you 
want  to  understand  a  dog's  language,  keep  a  silent 
tongue  in  your  head,  and  a  piece  of  sugar  in  your 
pocket. )  Arrived  at  the  top,  she  put  her  f orepaws 
on  the  parapet,  raised  her  shaggy  head,  and  looked 


160  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

across  the  greves  to  the  west;  then  up  at  me  with 
her  trusty  eyes,  as  who  should  say,  "Stay,  and  see  if 
I  was  not  right." 

I  indulged  her  fondness  for  sweets,  to  show  that 
my  intelligence  was  up  to  the  standard  of  the 
Quesnoy  motto,  Intelligenti  pauca.  She  thereupon 
tumbled  down  the  steps,  ran  through  the  archway, 
crossed  the  salted  meadowlands  to  the  briny  greves 
beyond,  then,  cutting  the  trail  of  the  white  cow  at 
right-angles,  bore  farther  to  the  west,  until  she  came 
to  the  river's  bank.  There  it  was  quite  evident 
that  she  was  at  a  loss;  but  in  the  end  she  turned 
her  tail  to  the  sun,  and  scampered  aimlessly  over  the 
ever-broadening  expanse  of  sea-swept  tangue,  with 
its  silvery  streams  and  cockle  beds,  and  with  its 
treacherous  quicksands.  .  .  . 

She  was  a  mere  speck  when  I  saw  my  brother 
Jacques  come  galloping  up  on  the  brown  mare.  A 
roar  told  me  that  he  had  caught  sight  of  me 
also. 

"Was  that  Fidele  I  saw  out  there  to  the  west?" 
he  shouted  on  an  oath,  as  I  emerged  from  the 
leper-house. 

"It  was.  Why  do  you  ask?  She  is  doing  no 
harm,  and  might  do  you  a  power  of  good." 

"Don't  tell  me !  The  sea  will  be  there  in  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour — Fidele'll  be  overtaken  and 
drowned.  Can  you  see  her  still?" 

"She  is  barely  visible." 

"Is  she  clear  of  the  quicksands?" 

I  strained  my  sight  to  its  farthest  limit,  shield 
ing  my  eyes  with  both  hands,  and  followed  the 
moving  atom,  taking  the  utmost  care  not  to  look 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS     161 

away  for  a  single  instant,  lest  I  might  lose  and 
never  recover  it  again. 

"She  is  feeling  her  way  round  them,"  I  replied. 

"Grand  Dieu  du  del!"  he  cried:  "Two  dangers 
for  her  to  choose  from!"  And,  without  more 
words,  off  he  tore  in  pursuit.  .  .  . 

I  stood  and  watched  the  handicap,  all  my  sym 
pathies  with  Fidele.  .  .  . 

On  a  sudden,  the  tan-coloured  speck  ceased  to 
move,  then  suddenly  it  appeared  to  grow  larger, 
as  if  Fidele  had  raised  her  head  to  listen  or  to 
howl.  .  .  . 

For  the  space  of  four  or  five  minutes  she  seemed 
to  remain  stationary.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  the  horseman  must  have  seized  the 
occasion  as  his  best  chance;  for,  by  the  end  of  the 
interval,  he  had  interposed  his  giant  form  between 
the  dog  and  my  vision;  then,  circling  round  as  if 
to  ring  the  truant  in,  he  had  driven  her  home 
ward,  only  a  few  paces  in  advance  of  the  tidal 
wave,  which  now  came  rolling  along  the  very  face 
of  the  nearer  stream,  leaving  in  its  wake  an  ever- 
widening  flood  of  sea-water.  .  .  . 

And  soon  I  could  see  Jacques,  with  his  arm  up 
lifted  to  flog  Fidele  into  mending  her  laggard  pace, 
and  could  hear  behind  them  the  panting  forerunner 
of  the  incoming  tide,  that  would  fill  the  nets  across 
the  rivers  with  salmon  and  sea-trout  and  with 
salmon- fry,  and  the  pockets  of  the  little  company 
of  fisherfolk  along  the  embankments  with  gold 
from  Paris  by  return  of  post.  Strange,  is  it  not, 
that  these  weather-worn  descendants,  who  bear  the 
same  names  as  the  wreckers  of  two  hundred  years 


162  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

ago,  should  now  share  and  share  alike  the  innocent 
spoils  of  the  sea,  during  the  six  months  of  the  sal 
mon  season  ?  .  .  .  To  them,  Jacques  was  a  god,  the 
object  of  their  idolatry,  and,  as  he  went  riding  down 
the  greves  at  full  gallop,  clacking  his  long  whip  and 
cursing  Fidele  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  first  one  and 
then  another  riverside  fisherman  would  raise  his 
head  from  his  net,  to  hearten  the  fleeing  horseman 
with  a  cheer.  ...  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  it 
would  fare  ill  with  the  man  who  should  dare  to  lay 
hands  on  their  hero.  .  .  . 

Hark!  ...  I  drew  nearer  silently.  A  couple 
of  voices  from  the  riverside,  at  the  edge  of  the 
briny  meadowlands : — 

"Une  cocotte  de  Cherbourg,  quoi,  la  femme  a 
Jacques?"  said  the  deeper  voice. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"J'n'disons  pas  non,  me,"  came  at  last  the 
guarded  reply. 

"Couchee  dans  le  lit  du  fleuve,  ce  n'est  que  la 
qu'elle  dormirait  bien  toute  seule,  cet  animal-la — 
pas?" 

His  more  cautious  companion  pondered  the  dark 
saying  before  replying: 

"Dame!  comme  on  fait  son  lit  on  se  couche, 
quoi?"  And  he  spat  thoughtfully  into  the  stream. 

"The  gendarmes  are  on  her  tracks,  they  say. 
D'you  think  they  will  find  her,  Jugan?" 

"Nay,  Bataille  —  look,  the  sea's  coming  in 
and " 

But  Bataille  broke  in  with  a  knowing  smile. 

"And  she  who  sleeps  two  in  a  bed  sleeps  well — 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS     163 

that's  a  true  saying,  isn't  it,  Jugan?  Well,  it  is  not 
the  sea  that  will  miss  spending  the  night  with  her 
this  very  evening,  quoi?"  And  Bataille  shot  out 
a  lascivious  lip.  The  two  men  exchanged  a 
wink. 

"Everything  comes  to  her  who  waits,  Bataille." 

"Well,  Jugan,  it  is  the  cold  embrace  of  the  sea 
she  will  know  before  long — an  embrace  that  will 
never  let  go.  .  .  ." 

Then  the  speaker  happened  to  look  up,  and  saw 
me.  His  face  became  a  mask.  He  raised  his  voice 
at  once. 

"Good-day  to  you,  monsieur,"  he  cried. 

My  sense  of  hearing  grew  lazy  suddenly. 

He  raised  his  voice  still  higher : — 

"Did  you  see  your  brother,  monsieur,  on  the 
brown  mare?"  he  shouted. 

I  could  scarcely  pretend  to  be  out  of  earshot  of 
a  voice  so  stentorian. 

"Dame!"  I  shouted  back,  "I  am  not  blind, 
Bataille." 

"He's  getting  deaf  though,  fortunately,"  growled 
Bataille  to  his  companion. 

"No  one  deafer  than  he  who  will  not  hear,"  mut 
tered  the  cautious  Jugan,  then  waded  through  the 
river  to  his  cottage  on  the  farther  side.  .  .  . 

As  for  his  mate,  Bataille,  who  lived  on  our  side 
of  the  river,  he  waited  until  Jugan  was  out  of  sight, 
and  then  came  leisurely  towards  me. 

"Going  my  way,  monsieur?"  he  asked. 

"Not  immediately,  Bataille,"  I  answered. 

"A  thousand  francs  is  a  big  sum,  pas?"  he 
mused.  "A  lot  of  salmon  in  twenty  thousand  sous. 


164  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

D'you  think  Monsieur  Jacques'll  ever  have  to  pay 
the  money?" 

"If  I  were  sure  that  the  money  would  find 
Madame  Jacques,  I  would  offer  ten  times  the 
amount  myself." 

"Parbleu! — it's  better  to  have  than  to  lose! 
For  me,  poor  as  I  am,  I'll  go  on  doing  my  busi 
ness  in  the  river." 

"Well,  the  salmon  bid  fair  to  be  plentiful 
enough." 

"Oh!  dame!  non!  Never  a  worse  start  to  a 
season,  since  I  was  a  boy!  Two-year  olds,  and 
those  of  the  smallest  of  small  fry." 

"The  same  old  fisherman's  story!" 

"Ask  Monsieur  Jacques,  monsieur,  if  you  don't 
believe  me.  He  knows." 

I  joined  him  on  the  knoll,  at  the  foot  of  the 
turret. 

"You  seem  to  have  a  liking  for  my  brother, 
Bataille." 

"Oh!  dame!  ouil  I'd  go  through  fire  for  him," 
and  he  emphasised  the  latter  pronoun,  "and  so 
would  my  friend  Jugan." 

"I  wish  one  of  you  could  help  me  clear  our 
name." 

"Has  any  one  been  saying  anything  against 
Monsieur  Jacques,  monsieur?"  he  demanded,  firing 
quickly. 

"Not  in  so  many  words,  Bataille,  but  there  are 
insinuations.  For  instance,  some  whisper  that 
Madame  Jacques  committed  suicide,  and  nod 
their  heads,  as  much  as  to  say  that  my  brother 
was  to  blame." 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS    165 

I  threw  out  the  suggestion  as  a  feeler.  But  the 
Norman,  true  to  his  race  and  caste,  was  on  his 
guard  at  once. 

"And  what  do  you  think,  monsieur?"  said  he, 
in  a  tone  of  friendly  sympathy. 

"Dame!  Bataille,  I  think  that  if  she  has  strayed 
on  to  those  quicksands,  never  a  trace  of  her  will 
be  found.  .  .  .  What  they  seize  they  hold.  An 
other  thing,  she  was  perhaps  more  likely  to  take  her 
life,  I  think,  than  she  was  to  have  it  taken — heinf" 

"Meaning,  monsieur,  that,  much  as  she  loved  her 
life,  there  were  those  who  loved  her  more  than  she 
loved  it?" 

"That  is  it  exactly.  And  what  is  your  opinion, 
Bataille?" 

"Dame!  monsieur,  my  opinion  would  be  the  same 
as  yours,  no  doubt,  if  you  gave  me  time  to  think 
it  over." 

"And  how  long  would  it  take  you  to  think  it 
over?" 

"Until  you  had  found  out  yourself,  monsieur," 
he  replied,  "and  maybe  a  little  longer.  .  .  ."  And 
his  tone  added  the  complement :  "what  you  are 
now  trying  to  find  out  from  me." 

"Well,  I  must  not  keep  you  any  longer  from 
your  breakfast.  Au  revoir,  Bataille." 

"Au  revoir,  monsieur,  and  good  luck  to  you !" 


The  sea  had  washed  up  to  my  very  feet,  and 
the  whole  of  the  vast  expanse  of  ash-grey  sands 
and  verdant  swards  been  transformed  into  a  smiling 


166  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

lake,  before  I  could  tear  my  mind  free  from  its 
fear,  and  settle  down  to  consider  what  it  would  be 
best  to  do.  In  the  end,  I  decided  that  I  would  at 
once  despatch  two  telegrams,  and,  giving  my 
brother  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  await  the  result. 

When,  an  hour  later,  I  entered  the  telegraph 
office,  it  was  to  find  Jacqueline  Lolif  in  the  act  of 
doing  what  I  had  come  to  do  myself. 

I  stepped  aside  until  she  had  finished,  wonder 
ing,  meanwhile,  whether  she  shared  my  apprehen 
sions,  or  whether  she  missed  seeing  the  clue  upon 
which  my  own  were  founded.  It  would  be  inter 
esting,  and  perhaps  helpful,  if  I  could  get  a  peep 
into  her  mind.  .  .  .  ''Woman's  prying  eyes  as 
usual,"  my  brother  had  rapped  out,  when  he 
turned  and  saw  her  at  the  graveside.  .  .  .  As 
usual?  Had  they  met  each  other  frequently,  then, 
since  the  snowstorm?  Or  was  he  speaking  of  the 
sex  in  general?  .  .  .  The  girl,  who  looked  har 
assed,  overwrought,  even  terror-stricken,  was  so 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  that  she  was  unaware 
of  my  presence.  .  .  .  How  easy  it  would  be  for 
one  of  the  canaille  to  steal  a  glance  over  her  shoul 
der,  as  she  stands  writing  in  the  corner!  .  .  . 
Dame!  Andre,  comte  du  Quesnoy,  your  methods 
are  the  only  ones  that  would  become  a  man  of  hon 
our,  but  how  they  steal  the  precious  days!  A 
peep  might  tell  you  much,  her  confidence  might  tell 
you  all.  .  .  .  Noblesse  oblige.  .  .  . 

Ah !  finished  at  last.  With  a  catch  of  the  breath 
at  sight  of  me,  she  hurried  forward  and  stretched 
out  her  hand. 


THE  TORTOISESHELL  HAIRPINS     167 

"We  meet  again,  monsieur.  I  hope  I  have  not 
kept  you  waiting." 

"Not  at  all,  mademoiselle.  I  am  not  in  a 
hurry." 

"Not?"  She  handed  her  telegram  to  the  clerk, 
and  then:  "I  have  to  get  back  at  once,  or  my 
mother  may  be  anxious." 

Again  I  stood  aside  as  she  took  out  her  purse. 

"Au  revoir,  monsieur." 

"A  bientot,  mademoiselle." 

And  I  was  alone.  The  first  telegram  I  handed 
in,  ran  as  follows  :— 

French  Consul,  Odessa.  Tell  your  guest  that 
Madame  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  has  disappeared. 
Andre,  Comte  du  Quesnoy. 

Dame!  since  Mahomet  cannot  go  to  the  moun 
tain,  the  mountain  must,  of  necessity,  come  to 
Mahomet!  Yes,  to  Mahomet,  who  awaits  him, 
sword  in  hand! 

My  second  despatch  was  peremptory: — 

Jean  Bienvenu,  Hotel  Saint-Michel,  Bruxelles. 
Stay  where  you  are  until  I  summon  you  back. 
Andre. 

Would  he  fly  into  a  passion,  and  return  by  the 
first  train?  Or  would  he  take  the  telegram  to 
the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy,  and  ask  her  advice? 

If  the  former,  he  would  be  in  my  way;  if  the 


168  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

latter,  I  could  rely  on  his  willing  obedience  to  my 
command. 

I  returned  home,  still  wondering  what  Jacque 
line's  message  might  have  told  me,  had  I  thrown 
my  scruples  to  the  wind.  .  .  . 


PART  III 
THE  SPELL-SPINNERS 

(Told  by  Jean  of  the  Bellows) 


169 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  VACANT  CHAIR 

1 

GIVE  a  dog  a  bad  name  and  hang  him.  Yes ;  or 
give  a  youngster  an  illuminating  nickname,  and 
sentence  him  to  death  for  incendiarism  .  .  . 

Now,  my  nickname  of  Jean  of  the  Bellows  is 
an  instance  in  point.  Believe  me,  it  has  led  to  more 
miscarriages  of  justice  at  my  expense  than  I  could 
count,  as  my  birth,  for  the  matter  of  that,  has 
given  rise  to  as  many  premature  suspicions  as  there 
are  spiteful  tongues  in  the  neighbourhood  in  which 
I  was  reared. 

For  my  part,  I  never  had  the  slightest  misgiving 
that  the  great  event  was  in  any  way  one  to  question 
until  I  was  ten  years  old,  and  was  caught  one  day 
by  Jacques  in  the  act  of  carving  my  name — J.  B. 
du  Quesnoy — in  the  bark  of  a  cherry-tree  in  the 
orchard.  He  at  once  flew  into  a  passion  at  the 
damage  I  was  doing,  and  blabbed  out  all  he  knew— 
precious  little  more  than  I  knew  myself  already. 
In  retaliation  I  kicked  his  shins,  then  called  him  a 
liar;  whereupon  he  thrashed  me  until  I  had  no 
breath  left,  even  for  chaff.  And  as  soon  as  he  let 
me  loose,  I  went  in  search  of  maman.  It  was  in 

171 


172  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

the  poultry  run  that  I  at  length  found  her.  She  was 
feeding  the  chickens. 

"Maman,"  I  blurted  out,  "Jacclues  says  I  am  not 
a  Quesnoy.  Isn't  he  a  liar,  maman !" 

She  was  silent. 

"Oh,  maman,  it  surely  can't  be  true?"  I  cried; 
but  she  never  said  a  word. 

"Is  it  a  secret,  then?"  I  pressed. 

"Not  mine,  my  Bienvenu,"  she  murmured,  and 
hugged  me  tight. 

"Maman,  tell  me — am  I  really  and  truly  welcome 
here?" 

"More  than  ever  welcome  to  my  home  and  heart," 
she  answered  warmly. 

I  wept  for  joy.  .  .  .  Indeed,  I  could  weep  still, 
every  time  I  think  of  all  I  have  lost  in  her.  Ah, 
had  she  lived  to  see  me  in  my  Chasseur  uniform 
she  might  have  taken  a  new  lease  of  life.  ...  I 
know  this —  when  I  first  put  it  on,  it  was  to  shed 
tears  of  bitterness  that  maman  was  no  longer  there 
to  admire  my  soldierly  bearing;  and,  for  the  same 
reason,  I  flung  it  aside  without  a  pang  as  soon  as 
my  two  years  of  military  service  were  over,  and 
straightway  returned  to  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm, 
where  a  new  mistress  was  reigning  in  maman's 
stead.  .  .  . 

Impossible  to  pass  over  this  memorable  home 
coming;  it  stands  out  in  my  memory  as  the  second 
great  event  in  my  life.  Jacques  du  Quesnoy,  who 
was  ten  years  older  than  myself,  had  married  a  year 
before  my  return;  and  as  the  train  bore  me  nearer 
and  nearer  to  Littremont  I  grew  more  and  more 
jealous  that  his  wife  should  be  ruling  where  my 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  173 

rnaman  had  reigned.  For  the  one  steadfast  passion 
of  my  life  has  been  my  love  for  maman,  living  and 
dead. 

My  elder  foster-brother,  Andre,  was  at  the  sta 
tion  to  meet  me — standing,  as  usual,  upon  his  dig 
nity  as  the  head  of  the  senior  branch  of  the  family. 

The  first  question  I  asked  him,  as  I  sprang  to  his 
side  in  the  dogcart,  had  been  the  uppermost  thought 
in  my  mind  for  months  : — 

"And  what  is  she  like,  Andre?" 

"Might  I  trouble  you  to  give  her  a  name,  Jean?" 

"Well,  Jacques  .  .  .  his  wife,  of  course,"  I  replied 
in  playful  mimicry  of  his  style. 

Without  a  word,  Andre  took  off  his  cap :  then  I 
knew  of  whom  he  reminded  me. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  portrait  of  the  Due  de 
Guise,  by  Dumonstier?  If  not,  study  your  own 
reflection  in  the  looking-glass,  my  dear  Andre. 
I  can't  very  well  tell  you  to  your  face  that  I  find 
it  a  perplexing  one,  now  can  I?  The  soft  fluffy 
hair,  without  a  parting,  shines  above  the  duke's 
head  like  a  halo,  though  it  be  a  shade  or  two  darker 
than  the  pointed  beard,  meticulously  trimmed, 
while  the  serene  and  watchful  eyes — dare  I  say  it  ?— 
are  set  a  trifle  close  to  the  long,  interrogative  nose, 
as  if  to  take  counsel  together,  before  allowing  the 
full  but  reticent  lips  to  unclose  in  speech.  A 
puzzling  face,  if  ever  there  was  one,  with  I  know 
not  what  expression  of  wiliness  between  brow  and 
chin,  no  sooner  detected  than  dismissed  out  of  fair 
ness  to  the  predominant  charm  of  the  meditative 
forehead  with  its  sweeping  temples :  a  riddle  of  a 


174  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

forehead  his,  sifting  every  thought  before  he  speaks, 
every  question  before  he  answers  it. 

Andre  knit  his  level  brows  till  they  were  only 
separated  by  a  thin,  deep  line :  was  it,  perhaps,  to 
emphasise  his  disapproval  ?  Then  : — 

"The  Countess  du  Quesnoy,"  he  replied :  "is  like 
no  one  but  herself." 

"So  I  had  supposed,  monsieur  le  comte,  since  she 
is,  of  course,  no  one  but  herself.  My  question  was 
loosely  worded.  In  plainer  parlance,  in  what  re 
spect  is  the  Countess  du  Quesnoy  like  no  one  but 
herself?" 

"Wait  and  see." 

"You  haven't  grown  more  communicative  since 
last  we  met,  have  you?" 

"Wait  and  see  again." 

He  repeated  the  words,  without  the  slightest 
trace  of  temper  or  discourtesy  in  the  mellow  tones. 

I  hoped  I  had  caught  the  key  as  I  answered : — 

"Seeing  that  by  rights  you  should  be  the  head  of 
the  family,  you  should,  I  think,  show  some  fellow- 
feeling  for  a  man  who,  like  myself,  should  bear  by 
rights  his  father's  name." 

"I  am  the  head  of  the  family,"  he  replied  serenely. 

"But  only  as  I  am  my  unknown  father's  son,"  I 
retorted. 

He  gave  me  a  long,  searching  glance. 

"I  see  your  point,  Jean  Bienvenu,"  he  magnani 
mously  announced. 

"I  am  proud  to  have  won  my  way  so  far,  mon 
sieur  le  comte,"  I  laughed. 

"You  might  win  it  to  the  end  of  the  journey  if 
that  fellow-feeling  to  which  you  have  made  appeal 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  175 

should  prove,  in  your  case  as  mine,  to  be  the 
stepping-tone  ..." 

He  paused,  deliberately. 

"Yes,  if  it  should  prove  to  be  the  stepping-stone?" 
.  .  .  And  then,  I,  too,  paused  for  the  missing  word. 

"Pardon,  Jean,  I  also  will  wait  and  see." 

I  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  see,  I  see!"  I  cried. 

"And  what  do  you  see,  might  I  ask?" 

"I  see  that  I'm  on  my  trial." 

Once  more  he  turned  his  head  to  look  at  me.  I 
returned  the  scrutiny  with  interest. 

"I  can't  say  I'm  particularly  fond  of  playing  a 
waiting  game  myself,"  I  remarked,  and  prided  my 
self  to  have  laughed  off  the  challenge  in  my  voice. 

"Did  you  mean  that  for  a  timely  warning?"  he 
asked,  his  eyebrows  raised. 

"Wait  and  you  will  see,  monsieur  le  comte." 

"As  a  farmer,  you  too  will  have  to  learn  to  be 
foreseeing  and  provident,  will  you  not?"  And  he 
covered  his  head  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"I  suppose  so.  And  as  a  sower  reap  what  I  have 
sown." 

He  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"And  are  you  satisfied  with  your  harvest, 
monsieur  le  comte?"  I  probed,  with  a  keen  glance 
to  give  the  question  point. 

"Abundantly,"  he  replied,  grimly  ironical. 

"I'm  ready  enough  to  reap  what  I  have  sown 
myself,  but  the  devil  may  take  me  if  I  garner  what 
has  been  sown  in  my  absence." 

Again  my  voice  had  chimed  with  his;  but  this 
time  I  had  spoken  out  of  the  bitterness  of  my 


176  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

heart.  .  .  .  Oh!  that  new  mistress  at  maman's 
hearth!  .  .  . 

"Ah?"  The  question  seemed  to  issue,  less  from 
the  close  lips  than  from  the  clear-cut  nostrils. 

"Come,  frankly,  Andre,  did  you  welcome  mam 
an's  successor  when  Jacques  first  brought  her  to 
the  farm?" 

"Foolish  boy." 

"Never  so  wise  as  when  I  gave  maman  my  heart ! 
To  me  the  mistress  of  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm  will 
be  her  Vacant  Chair.  Always." 

"The  Chair  is  again  occupied." 

"What!"   My  voice,  broke  with  emotion. 

"Spare  your  voice,  I  beg,  for  the  notes  of  admira 
tion  when  you  see  the  sitter." 

"I've  hated  her  for  a  year  already.  And  I  can 
tell  you  this,  Andre,  my  hatred  will  outlive  your 
admiration  of  her  charms." 

"Distinguons.  You  have  not  hated  her  so  much 
as  you  have  hated  the  picture  which  your  imagi 
nation  has  painted  of  her.  A  very  different  thing, 
as  you  will  quickly  see." 

We  were  skirting  the  salted  meadowlands  be 
tween  the  farm  and  the  riverside.  A  little  ahead  of 
us,  there  swung  along,  with  a  lithe  and  springy  step, 
a  girl  graceful  and  tall.  She  turned  a  vivid  face 
towards  us  as  we  trotted  past.  I  was  struck  by  her 
jet-black  hair,  and  the  thistle-blue  of  her  eyes. 

"Did  you  recognise  her?"  asked  Andre. 

"No.    What  a  lovely  girl!   Who  is  she?" 

"Jacqueline  de  Montviron,  or,  as  she  prefers  to 
be  called  by  her  mother's  name,  Jacqueline  Lolif." 

"What !"  I  exclaimed,  "my  little  playmate  Jacque- 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  177 

line?  Of  course!  Why,  I  ought  to  have  remembered 
those  eyes :  the  most  amazing  blue  I  ever  saw. 
And  so  she  insists  still  upon  bearing  her  mother's 
name?" 

"Yes,  she  has  the  Montviron  obstinacy.  Most 
unfair  to  the  mother  that  Montviron  should  have 
held  the  views  he  did.  I  fear  it  will  cast  a  shadow 
over  the  daughter's  life."  And  Andre  sighed,  a 
rare  thing  for  him ;  but  I  think  his  heart  is  less  dry 
than  his  words,  perhaps. 

"Oh,"  I  said  confidently,  "those  blue  eyes  of 
Jacqueline's  will  dispel  any  shadow.  Believe  me, 
Andre,  she  will  be  able  to  change  her  name  just 
whenever  she  likes.  Now,  if  I  were  a  marrying  man 
myself,  she  would  not  long  be  kept  waiting — 
And  then  I  remembered  that  I  had  neither  a  father's 
nor  yet  a  mother's  name  to  offer,  and  I  was  silent, 
embarrassed.  Not  an  unusual  thing  with  me,  in 
Andre's  company,  as  he  knew;  but  as  we  swerved 
into  the  drive  between  the  tall  elm-trees,  he  turned 
aside  quickly  to  cover  my  confusion — a  matter  of 
instinct  with  him. 

"Neither  will  you  be  kept  long  waiting  before 
you  see  your  bete  noire,"  said  he.  "Look,  there  she 
is,  standing  in  the  doorway,  to  greet  you  on  your 
home-coming." 


.  .  .  Maman,  maman,  your  dear  face  was  still 
enshrined  in  my  heart,  you  may  rest  assured  of 
that;  but,  my  God,  Jeannette's  face  was  there  be 
fore  my  eyes :  such  a  face  as  poets  sing  of  and  men 


178  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

die  for:  a  face  to  take  a  Caesar  captive,  redeem  a 
Nero,  outshine  a  Helen.  .  .  . 

Before  Andre  could  draw  rein,  I  had  leaped  to  her 
side,  her  small  hand  raised  reverently  to  my  lips. 

"So  you  are  Jean  Bienvenu?"  Her  voice  was  a 
caress. 

The  familiarity  sounded  like  the  sweetest  music 
ever  heard  in  dreams;  I  thanked  heaven  I  bore  no 
other  name. 

"Am  I  to  you?"  I  asked. 

"Are  you — welcome,  do  you  mean?"  she  smiled. 
"Oh,  yes!  let  me  see — what  is  it  that  Jacques  calls 
you?" 

"Oh,  Jacques  sometimes  calls  me  Cherry,  but 
every  one  else  calls  me  Jean  of  the  Bellows." 

"Cherry? — it's  a  luscious  fruit!" 

"It  is  not  beyond  your  reach." 

"Come,  I  am  not  so  tall  as  you." 

"I'll  never  believe  it — for  am  I  not  at  your  feet?" 

She  threw  me  a  smile  with  her  eyes;  then  to 
Andre,  who  had  just  come  up : — 

"Andre,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  what  a  delightful 
boy  he  was?  It  would  have  been  a  joy  to  have 
looked  forward  to  his  return." 

"On  the  other  hand,  if  I  had  stretched  the  point, 
you  would  have  missed  the  delight  of  making  a 
discovery." 

"And  you  the  opportunity  of  saying  a  spiteful 
thing.  I  have  yet  to  discover  your  charms,  remem 
ber,  which  would  seem  to  be  exceedingly  far  to 
seek." 

"Dame!  Jeannette,  I  must  rest  content  to  have 
been  a  makeshift,"  was  Andre's  cool  reply. 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  179 

A  warm  flush  stole  over  the  snowy  whiteness  of 
her  skin. 

"You  have  a  long,  long  memory,  Andre,"  she 
murmured,  and  her  voice  was  regretful,  appealing, 
irresistible :  it  struck  a  chord  in  Andre's  memory. 

He  bent  his  straight  brows  together,  scrutinising 
her  face. 

"Has  the  year  been  so  long?"  he  asked;  and  in 
his  usually  quiet  tones  there  rang  an  almost  breath 
less  appeal. 

"Three  hundred  and  seventy-one  days,  Andre, 
to  be  precise,  and  three  hundred  and  seventy 
nights." 

"Why  count  by  days  and  nights?"  I  cried.  "To 
me  life  is  made  up  of  moments.  I  am  three  moments 
old  this  very  moment." 

"Selfish  boy,  to  win  eternal  youth  at  the  expense 
of  all  your  friends,"  she  cried,  and  Andre  frowned 
at  the  compliment  implied. 

"And  how  old  are  you?"  I  laughed. 

"One  moment  old,  rude  boy." 

"Which  one  are  you  counting?" 

"The  only  one  which  ever  counts — the  present 
moment,  of  course." 

"Then  may  it  last  a  lifetime.  .  .  ." 

"What,  in  your  company?  The  moments  seem 
only  too  likely  to  accumulate.  Comme  vous  y  allezl 
Now,  tell  me,  which  are  your  two  other  moments?" 

"The  first  time  I  lisped  the  name  maman,  and  the 
last  time  I  called  it  out — in  vain." 

Her  eyes  shone  through  tears  as  they  looked 
into  mine. 

"Jean,  they  are  better  worth  remembering  than 


180  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

this  present  moment."  And  she  walked  into  the 
salle  basse  with  a  swan-like  grace. 

"Yes,  by  Heaven!"  I  exclaimed,  with  memory 
knocking  at  my  heart  to  let  in  the  past.  "No,  don't 
close  the  door,  let  them  all  flock  in." 

"Let  what  flock  in?" 

"My  memories." 

An  elusive  smile  flashed  from  lips  to  eyes,  and  lo ! 
the  tears  were  dry.  Then,  with  a  little  ripple  of 
laughter,  more  easily  interpreted : — 

"Not  that  one  can  remember  the  present  until 
it  be  past." 

She  spoke  as  upon  an  after-thought;  or  was  it 
perhaps  a  challenge  flung  lightly  over  her  shoulder 
to  the  open  door?  .  .  .  She  was  on  the  point  of 
sitting  down  in  the  Vacant  Chair,  when  with  a  rush 
I  handed  her  another,  crying : — 

"No,  no,  madame,  no  one  shall  sit  in  that  chair; 
now  I'm  at  home  again !" 

She  humoured  me,  sinking  to  the  easy-chair  1 
offered  her,  and  gazing  dreamily  into  the  great  log 
fire.  It  was  some  time  before  she  spoke  again. 

"You  are  very  sure  of  the  past,"  she  said  at  last; 
"its  hold  upon  you  must  be  very  secure." 

"It's  the  painter  that  keeps  me  from  drifting, 
you  see,"  I  answered. 

"Now  I  have  no  past — have  I,  Andre  ?  Nor  ever 
shall,  I  sometimes  think.  My  life  is  a  prolongation." 

The  speech  was  never  finished — checked  by  the 
sound  of  the  footsteps,  quick  and  angry,  which  I 
had  dreaded  when  a  boy;  and  soon  the  open  door 
way  was  blocked  by  the  enormous  bulk  of  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy,  his  shoulders  stretching  from  post  to  post. 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  181 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  never  moved,  but  stood 
glowering  at  the  back  of  his  wife's  head,  his  own 
flung  back  with  a  conscious  energy,  an  intentional 
vigour,  which  showed  his  will  to  be  working  to 
gether  with  his  natural  instinct,  as  though  her 
attitude  of  reposefulness  had  nettled  him  to  fling 
into  the  gesture  all  that  he  had  in  him  of  master 
fulness  and  strength. 

His  wife  locked  her  fingers  and  rested  her  head 
as  in  a  sling,  reaching  out  the  tip  of  a  tiny  shoe  to 
the  warmth. 

Then  in  he  strode,  his  hand  tugging  at  his  flaxen 
moustache. 

"What,  Jeannette,  fooling  your  time  away  as 
usual?"  he  cried;  then  he  condescended  to  notice 
me,  and  striding  forward  shook  me  by  the  hand. 
Then  to  his  wife :  "Come  along,  Jeannette,  don't 
sit  wool-gathering  over  the  embers :  the  new  milk 
is  coming  in,  and  you  know  it  can't  be  left  to  that 
fool,  Felicite.  And  heaven  knows  what  else  there 
isn't  to  look  after." 

It  struck  me  that  he  had  changed  since  last  I 
saw  him;  shorter  in  the  temper — it  had  always 
been  a  fierce  one — more  sinister  in  his  tem 
perament. 

Andre  left  the  room  discreetly;  I,  with  an  equal 
discretion,  stayed  where  I  was.  Why  herald  a 
storm  which  might  never  burst? 

On  Andre's  exit,  up  jumped  Jeannette,  and,  turn 
ing  her  back  on  me,  confronted  her  husband.  Un 
able  to  see  her  face,  I  studied  his  instead.  His  wide 
blue  eyes  grew  black  with  passion,  as  he  returned 
the  glance  he  had  no  doubt  received. 


182  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Don't  you  hear  what  I  say,  Jeannette?  Are  you 
deaf?"  he  clarioned. 

"Not  deaf — but  dumbfounded,"  she  replied,  and 
swung  round  and  went  to  the  door  leading  to  the 
staircase;  there  she  paused,  her  hand  on  the 
portiere,  and  looked  back  at  me.  "You  may  call  me 
Jeannette,  Jean  Bienvenu,"  she  said :  the  sweetness 
of  eyes  and  voice  was  indescribable,  yet  it  struck  me 
as  a  challenge,  flung  at  Jacques. 

Then  we  heard  the  swift,  light  patter  of  her 
footsteps  up  the  staircase. 

"Little  Spitfire,"  muttered  Jacques.  "Who  the 
devil  ever  heard  of  a  farmer's  wife  cowering  over 
the  coals  at  this  hour  of  the  afternoon !  But  you'll 
see,  she  won't  come  out  of  her  room  now  until  sup 
per-time — and  then,  in  an  evening  gown.  Enough 
to  make  a  man  lose  his  temper,  pas  vrai,  Jean  ?" 

Too  worldly-wise  to  poke  my  finger  between  the 
tree  and  the  bark,  I  prudently  held  my  tongue. 

"Are  you  deaf  as  well?"  he  bellowed,  his  great 
throat  throbbing  with  excitement. 

"Oh!  dame!  non!"  I  cried,  on  a  burst  of  laughter. 

"Should  advise  you  to  keep  a  silent  tongue  in 
your  head,  then,"  he  shouted. 

"Under  what  circumstances  would  you,  now?" 
I  cheerily  inquired. 

"Mother  always  spoiled  you;  but  I'm  damned  if 
Jeannette  shall  fill  her  place,"  he  blustered. 

"You  must  have  found  it  pretty  hot  at  home," 
I  remarked,  "if  you  didn't  detect  the  change  of 
temperature  when  you  damned  yourself  to  jump 
out  of  the  frying-pan  into  so  fierce  a  fire." 

"What  the  deuce  d'you  mean?" 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  183 

"In  plain  words  then;  it  is  you  who  have  filled 
maman's  place,  and  therefore  you  are  damned 
already,  mon  pauvre  Jacques." 

He  flung  out  of  the  room,  and  banged  the  door  to. 

Left  alone,  I  fell  into  a  dream  of  pleasant  musing. 

By-and-by,  Jacques  came  back,  and  stole  up  the 
staircase,  looking  sheepish  as  a  schoolboy  on  his 
way  to  apologise  to  the  head  master.  But  he  had 
been  right ;  for  Jeannette  declined  to  leave  her  room 
until  supper  was  ready,  when  she  appeared,  radiant 
in  her  beauty — and  that  of  her  evening  gown — per 
haps  too  striking  a  contrast  to  our  homely  salle 
basse.  Andre,  it  is  true,  kept  her  in  countenance- 
not  by  his  dress,  which  was  rough  enough,  but  by 
his  air  of  grand  seigneur. 

"In  your  honour,  Jean,"  remarked  Jeannette. 
"To  show  you  that  you  are  indeed  'welcome,'  "  she 
demurely  added,  then  threw  her  husband  a  kiss  on 
her  finger  tips.  .  .  . 


What  a  strange  picture  we  must  have  made,  we 
four,  as  we  sat  round  the  long  table  in  the  great 
salle  basse.  It  was  a  scene  for  the  stage,  but  hardly 
for  work-a-day  life.  Andre,  in  farmer's  clothes  and 
lordly  bearing :  Jacques,  who  was  going  out  fishing, 
in  clothes  to  suit  the  occupation,  with  long  sea-boots 
and  with  his  pirate  air— what  an  untamed  nature 
was  his !  Was  it  that  which  had  won  over  Jeannette 
in  a  moment's  sudden  weakness?  .  .  .  And  there 
was  I,  young  and  heedless,  fresh  from  the  barracks, 
eager  to  play  the  part  of  the  "man  about  town,"  in 


184  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

the  eyes  of  that  most  bewitching  of  women,  Jean- 
nette.  And  for  domestics,  there  was  Felicite,  the 
maid-of-all  work,  with  her  rude  manner  and  ready 
tongue :  but  the  rude  manner  would  grow  polite 
before  Andre;  the  ready  tongue  falter  into  gentle 
ness  before  Jeannette.  .  .  . 

And  so  it  all  began. 

You  see  the  seed,  don't  you,  Andre,  which  we 
held  in  our  hands,  all  three?  There  was  Jeannette, 
bored  to  desperation,  so  heartily  sick  of  her  life  at 
the  farm  that,  as  I  presently  discovered,  she  would 
defy  your  indignant  protestations,  and  call  upon 
your  enemy,  Gerard  du  Quesnoy,  at  his  chateau  on 
the  M.  Hill.  There  was  Jacques,  too,  at  the  absurd 
disadvantage  of  loving  a  woman  whose  heart  was 
divided  between  two  other  men,  one  at  the  hearth 
and  the  other  on  the  U.  And  there  was  I,  too 
sympathetic  as  well  as  too  gallant,  not  to  meet  her  a 
little  more  than  half-way,  and  thus  save  her  a  too 
frequent  journey  to  the  top  of  the  winding  hill. 

Clasp  such  seed  as  tightly  as  we  might,  a  few 
grains  would  trickle  through  our  fingers  day  by  day, 
and  week  after  week,  until  at  last  six  months  wore 
on  to  the  climax,  to  find  Jeannette  and  me  sitting 
one  spring  afternoon  in  the  flower-garden  round  the 
old  well :  the  garden  planted  with  the  seed  I  had 
allowed  to  slip,  and  watered  with  the  tears  she  had 
shed  in  secret.  And  out  there  in  the  wilderness  of 
his  passions,  wandered  the  other  careless  Sower, 
now  scattering  fresh  seeds  of  disunion  between  him 
self  and  wife,  and  now,  in  moments  of  fitful  re 
morse,  slashing  off  the  thistle-heads  which  had 
sprung  up  in  the  night.  And  now  through  the 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  185 

garden  of  flowers,  and  now  through  the  waste  of 
the  thistles,  went  the  Silent  Watcher,  as  observant 
of  my  devoted  gardening  as  bent  upon  the  bridling 
of  the  storm-wind,  and  burying  a  love  that  never 
faltered  in  effacing  itself  in  a  heart  deep  as  a  well. 

You  may  read  all  this  as  a  parable,  my  dear 
Andre,  or  as  matter  of  fact.  What  followed  is  not 
for  your  eyes,  so  kindly  skip  a  page  or  two,  till  you 
come  to  the  end  of  the  scene  in  the  well  garden, 
which  here  begins. 

Two  stone  seats  set  in  the  wall  of  the  well  faced 
each  other  on  either  side  of  the  opening,  above 
which  rose  the  windlass  of  oak.  And  surrounding 
the  wall  was  a  lofty  trellis,  all  covered  with  early 
roses,  and  concealing  from  inquisitive  eyes  those 
who  might  enter  in. 

One  May  morning,  Jeannette  slipped  through  the 
opening  into  the  fragrant  bower,  and  sat  down  on 
one  side;  I  followed  with  my  heart  upon  my  lips, 
and  sat  down  on  the  other;  and  our  knees  met, 
unintentionally. 

Upon  the  instant,  we  each  bent  forward,  kindling 
to  the  same  desire,  till  our  lips  were  so  close  to 
gether  that  I  could  feel  upon  mine  the  breath  which 
parted  her  own.  .  .  . 

"Jean?"  she  murmured,  and  her  voice  was  in 
itself  an  invitation,  passionate  and  lingering  as  a 
caress. 

"Jeannette!"  I  responded,  and  my  voice  was  the 
echo  of  hers. 

"They  are  not  beyond  your  reach,  my  Bienvenu : 
gather  your  cherries  while  you  may." 

And  it  was  done  before  the  last  word  was  out. 


186  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

It  was  our  first  kiss.  I  do  not  count  the  ones  I  had 
snatched  or  stolen,  or  forced  upon  resisting,  not 
unwilling  lips.  They  played  their  parts,  no  doubt, 
in  the  comedy  of  errors,  forming  the  rungs  of  the 
ladder  up  which  desire  steals  its  way  to  the  mind, 
to  puzzle  one's  sense  of  honour,  until  the  blood  and 
the  brain  converge  to  meet  at  the  boiling  point. 

My  young  blood  on  fire,  I  recked  not  at  all  that 
she  was  my  foster-brother's  wife,  and  he  the  son 
of  my  ever  dear  maman.  Jeannette,  his  wife? 
Allans  done!  She  was  my  woman,  as  I  was  her 
man.  And  we  closed  our  eyes  tight,  and  drank  deep 
of  the  well-spring  of  each  other's  being,  and  were 
made  in  spirit  one  flesh.  .  .  .  For  shame  had 
closed  her  eyes  likewise,  and  honour  had  not  yet 
woke  up  again — in  either  of  us.  Six  months  of 
love's  delay  went  to  purchase  that  one  kiss:  an 
eternity  will  not  stale  its  infinite  yearning,  its  sting, 
its  bitterness.  .  .  .  Jeannette  was  the  first  to  open 
her  eyes :  wide  they  opened,  to  let  her  soul  slip 
through  to  mine;  and  I  was  just  in  time  to  catch 
it  before  it  lost  its  way  in  our  garden  of  delight. 

"Six  months  ago,"  she  murmured  dreamily,  "on 
a  day  almost  as  sunny  as  this,  you  came  to  me  at 
a  bound,  and  raised  my  hand  to  your  lips.  And 
now  .  .  .  you  see  what  has  come  of  it!  Jean,  I 
must  go  away.  I  may  not  stay  here  any  longer. 
I  don't  love  him  .  .  .  we  have  no  children — why 
should  I  stay  and  endure?"  .  .  . 

"Jeannette!   Am  I  not  still  with  you?" 

"With  me  more  than  ever,  my  Bienvenu;  but 
together  we  may  not  live — in  his  house.  I  am  too 
proud,  you  too  loyal." 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  187 

"The  kiss  has  told  us  nothing  which  we  did  not 
know  before." 

"Jean!  Jean!  the  ice  is  broken,  and  the  well  is 
deep." 

"Our  love  will  fill  it  to  the  brim  with  the  memory 
of  this  one  moment.  There  need  be  no " 

"No,  Jean,  no,  we  should  sink  down  and  down, 
until  we  touched  the  bottom,  where  love  is  drowned. 
Go  I  must,  my  Bienvenu.  Stay  you  here.  He  loves 
me  in  his  way,  he  will  think  more  kindly  of  us  when 
I  am  gone.  He  has  been  jealous  of  you  all  along, 
and  that  without  a  cause.  .  .  .  Until  this  moment, 
which  you,  poor  boy,  invoke !  .  .  .  No,  no,  Jean,  I 
must  go  at  once,  lest  our  love  betray  us  further  still 
— I  must — I  will." 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  was  rushing  to 
wards  the  house  down  the  long  path  between  the 
waving  masses  of  yellow  daffodils. 

I  hastened  to  overtake  her. 

"Jeannette,  do  nothing  rash,"  I  pleaded:  "re 
member,"  I  added,  smiling,  "I  count  my  life  by 
moments :  let  my  fifth  birthday  be  the  happy 
memory  of  this  which  is  my  fourth:  do  not  mate 
the  one  unhappy  moment  in  my  life  with  yet 
another." 

Without  a  word  in  reply,  she  sped  to  the  house, 
and  through  the  kitchen  into  the  salle  basse.  There 
she  turned,  and,  reaching  out  both  her  hands,  drew 
me  to  her  tenderly. 

"My  Bienvenu,"  she  whispered:  "listen — no, 
bend  your  head  a  little  lower,  I  cannot  reach  your 
ear :  I  am  jealous  of  that  past  of  yours,  because  I 
did  not  share  it.  Tell  me,  Jean,  were  I  to  leave 


188  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

you  now,  upon  this  instant  moment  which  has  made 

me    yours — toute,    toute    tienne,    mon    Bienvenu — 

would  you  mourn  my  loss  as  you  mourn  maman's?" 

My    heart    seemed    to    stop,    and    time    stood. 

Then,  as  I  gazed  round  the  scene  of  the  happiest 
childhood  a  mother's  son  has  ever  spent,  to  say 
nothing  of  a  nameless  waif,  it  bounded  back  to  life 
again,  that  silenced  heart  of  mine,  driving  to  my 
face  its  warmest,  purest  blood. 

And  she  watched  me  closely  and  saw  the  colour 
rise,  and  sought  to  trace  it  back  to  its  source. 

"Jean,  my  Bienvenu,  do  say  you  would  .  .  .  and 
I  will — stay." 

We  were  close,  quite,  quite  close  together,  but 
not  so  close,  thank  God,  but  maman's  spirit  found 
room  between  us,  next  to  me.  And  it  was  her 
face — strong — rough-hewn,  and  faithful — which  I 
saw,  as  I  looked  straight  in  front  of  me  over  Jean- 
nette's  shoulder,  to  where  the  Vacant  Chair  seemed 
waiting  trustfully  for  my  answer.  .  .  . 

"You  would  mourn  me  equally  with  her.  .  .  . 
She  would  not  grudge  me  an  equal  share,  surely  ?  .  . 
I  who  should  mourn  you  so  bitterly — and  you 
alone,  my  Jean,  my  Bienvenu?" 

"No!  .  .  .  By  Heaven,  no,  Jeannette!"  I  cried. 
"For  us,  the  present,  and,  if  you  will,  the  future; 
but  every  minute,  and  every  second,  before  we  met, 
you  and  I,  belong  to  maman  and  me  alone." 

She  dropped  my  hands,  and  with  a  set  face 
slipped  behind  me,  and  dashed  the  Chair  to  the 
floor. 

"I  hate  the  very  sight  of  it;  and  I  have  hated  it 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  189 

from  the  first  day  I  entered  this  house,  as  I  hate 
you  on  leaving  it  for  ever!" 

Her  voice  was  shrill  and  vibrant;  it  thrilled  in 
my  nerves  as  might  the  feel  of  satin  rubbed  the 
wrong  way. 

"Pick  up  the  Chair!"  I  cried,  and  caught  her  by 
the  wrist. 

"Pick  it  up  yourself! — let  me  go,  you  are  hurting 
my  wrist!"  With  a  jerk  she  wrenched  herself  free, 
and  her  wedding-ring  slipped  off  and  rolled  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room. 

"Not  so  much  as  you  have  hurt  my  feelings," 
I  retorted  hotly.  "I  would  not  keep  you,  Jeannette 
.  .  .  go  if  you  will.  But  don't  forget  your  wed 
ding-ring;  it  was  always  a  size  too  large  for  your 
finger,  \vasn't  it?"  And  I  replaced  the  Chair  in  its 
corner,  by  the  tall  clock,  while  she  stooped  to  pick 
up  the  narrow  hoop  of  gold. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  had  stolen  from  the  farm 
stead.  But  Jacques  discovered  her  flight,  and  fol 
lowed  in  the  dogcart.  They  came  back  together. 
I  seized  the  first  opportunity  to  thank  her  for  re 
turning. 

"He  pleaded  so  hard,  poor  dear  old  Jacques," 
she  replied :  "I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  re 
sist  his  passionate  appeal.  Scald  a  cat,  mon  pauvre 
Jean,  and  she  will  shy  away  from  cold  water." 

Mad  with  jealousy,  I  gave  a  shout  of  derisive 
laughter. 

"Was  it  Gerard  du  Quesnoy  that  poured  the 
cold  water  on  your  passionate  appeal?"  I  burst 
out. 

"Envious  boy!"  she  sweetly  cooed. 


190  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

With  the  jealousy  bubbling  in  my  heart,  I  strode 
out  of  the  house  to  where  two  fields  met. 

"Well,  Jean  of  the  Bellows?"  said  the  voice  of 
Andre. 

I  swung  round  in  my  stride.  There  he  stood,  the 
Silent  Watcher,  planting  cabbages  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge.  Something  in  his  voice  stung  me. 

I  cleared  the  hedge  at  a  bound,  and  stood  over 
him. 

"I'm  not  such  a  fool  anyhow  as  to  blow  on  a 
dead  fire,  Andre  the  Jilted,"  I  sneered. 

He  drove  his  spade  into  the  soil  several  times 
before  replying;  then  he  said:  "Ah?"  toning  the 
ironic  question  to  the  upraised  eyebrows. 

"The  fire  in  your  heart  would  blaze  up  quick 
enough,"  I  continued,  greatly  daring,  "if  she  but 
breathed  a  breath  upon  your  waistcoat  pocket." 

Again  he  drove  the  spade  into  the  earth — he 
always  kept  it  bright  as  a  mediaeval  shield — before 
he  could  bring  himself  to  repeat  even  so  curt  an 
answer. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Andre,"  I  ejaculated,  firing 
at  the  contempt  I  read  in  his  whole  attitude  :  "we're 
a  pretty  pair  of  fools,  you  and  I.  Gerard  du  Ques- 
noy's  the  man,  and  the  sooner  we  recognise  it  the 
better  for  our  peace  of  mind." 

"Ah?"  he  repeated  yet  again,  as  the  spade  shot 
home.  .  .  .  Then,  raising  himself  to  his  full  stat 
ure,  which,  low  as  it  was  in  comparison  with  his 
brother's  or  with  mine,  yet  seemed  a  span  or  two 
beyond  our  reach  when  he  had  us  at  a  disadvant 
age  :  "I  had  not  thought,"  he  continued,  in  his 
loftiest  manner,  "that  folly  could  be  so  infectious. 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  191 

Remove  yourself  to  a  safer  distance,  I  beg.  And 
one  last  word  of  advice  to  you  before  you  go.  Up 
to  now,  Jean  of  the  Bellows,  you  have  blown  first 
hot,  then  cold,  and  then  hot  again.  In  future,  be 
pleased  to  change  the  pace,  and  blow  first  cold,  then 
colder,  and  then  colder  and  colder — or — 

Pausing,  he  seemed  to  tower  above  me,  as  he 
gathered  himself  together:  "Or,"  he  expostulated, 
his  voice  sinking  to  an  intensity  of  feeling  which 
I  was  destined  to  hear  again,  "by  the  memory  of 
my  mother,  I  swear  I  will  turn  you  out  of  the  house 
in  which  she  reared  you  as  her  own.  .  .  .  Boys, 
no  doubt,  will  be  boys,  and — 

"Why,  man,  I'm  nearly  twenty-two,"  I  protested. 

" — And  stolen  kisses  prove  sweeter  than  sour 
grapes — 

And  before  I  could  bite  my  tongue  off  I  had 
blurted  out : — 

"Only  one,  I  swear." 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  shy  reproach  in  his  eyes : 

"Kiss,"  he  said,  in  English,  "but  never  tell,"  and 
his  voice  was  strangely  gentle. 

"D'you  think  I'd  've  told  it  to  any  one  but  you?" 
I  flashed  out.  "First  you  screw  me  on  the  rack, 
and  then  you  proceed  to  pump  me.  Man,  you're 
no  better  than  a  cold-blooded  inquisitor." 

So  I  stormed  and  blustered,  while  he  stooped  to 
continue  his  work.  .  .  . 

"Let  it  be  your  last,  and  you  shall  be  to  me  again 
Jean  le  Bienvenu,"  he  replied,  then  returned  quietly 
to  his  digging. 

The  last  kiss — what  a  chain  of  linked  weakness 
it  has  a  way  of  forging,  struggle  as  one  may!  .  .  . 


192  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 


The  summer  and  autumn  which  followed  tried 
me  more  than  I  could  sometimes  bear,  without  a 
respite;  but  on  the  whole  I  stood  the  test  in  a  way 
which  allayed  Jacques's  jealousy,  relieved  Andre's 
watchfulness,  and  left  me  little  to  deplore  on  the 
score  of  loyalty,  save  the  fitful  yearning  to  return 
to  the  well  in  the  garden.  .  .  . 

And  Jeannette?  Dame!  Jeannette  grew  peevish, 
fratchy,  restless,  more  and  more  so  as  the  months 
wore  away.  Sometimes  she  would  seek  temporary 
relief  at  the  chateau  on  the  M.  Hill;  sometimes  she 
would  find  it  nearer  home,  only  to  become  more 
irritable  afterwards,  and  make  a  scene.  .  .  .  The 
longing  to  return  to  the  well  had  almost  left  me 
by  the  time  the  winter  came,  and  the  screech-owl 
lured  me  to  the  sick  bed  of  my  friend  Raoul  de 
Guernon.  .  .  . 

I  had  said  good-bye  to  Jeannette  before  her 
husband,  and  she,  under  the  shock  of  my  resistance 
to  her  appeals,  had  fanned  his  jealousy  anew,  and 
with  it  my  love  of  conquest.  .  .  .  Que  voulez-vousl 
It  had  flattered  me,  silly  cat's-paw  that  I  was,  that 
she  should  bid  me  stay  and  appear  distracted  at 
my  going.  .  .  . 

Eager  to  return  to  her,  on  finding  Raoul  no 
worse,  I  rode  through  the  blinding  snowstorm  and 
the  bitter  frost  that  followed  it,  and  arrived  home 
at  peep  of  day,  my  silent  promise  to  Andre  for 
gotten,  and  along  with  it  my  old  dread  of  the  scenes 
which  would  have  turned  the  Garden  of  Eden  itself 
into  a  fool's  paradise. 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  193 

Panting  with  excitement,  I  rode  through  the 
front  gates,  which  were  open — a  happy  thought  of 
hers,  no  doubt,  to  save  me  the  trouble  of  dismount 
ing — and  up  the  long  drive.  .  .  . 

A  light  shone  in  the  front  window  of  the  salle 
basse;  it  seemed  to  be  there  to  guide  my  steps 
within  the  circle  of  her  care  of  me.  I  smiled,  de 
lighted,  and,  after  stabling  my  horse,  stole  up  to 
the  shining  window  with  beating  heart,  hoping  to 
take  her  by  surprise 

Concealing  myself  against  the  wall,  I  reached 
out  a  hand  and  tapped  on  the  window-pane.  No 
answer — save  from  the  room  above  the  familiar 
roll  of  her  husband's  snoring.  .  .  . 

More  certain  than  ever  that  she  was  downstairs — 
who  could  sleep  in  that  nasal  thunder? — I  tapped 
once  more,  and  this  time,  when  no  answer  came,  I 
stepped  forward  and  looked  in :  only  to  discover 
Andre  fast  asleep  by  the  fireside;  his  whole  face 
shone  with  the  peace  of  a  quiet  conscience. 

Before  I  could  draw  back,  there  had  come  a 
shriek  from  overhead :  and  Andre,  awaking,  caught 
sight  of  me  as  he  jumped  up  and  made  as  if  to  rush 
upstairs.  Changing  his  mind  at  once,  he  strode 
forward,  flung  open  the  window,  and  said  in  that 
intense  tone  I  had  heard  but  once  before  :— 

''Jean  of  the  Bellows,  the  bird  is  flown;  you  have 
come  back  too  late  to  say  good-bye.  .  .  Your 
day  is  over — and  your  night  begun. 

Before  I  could  find  the  words  to  tell  him  he 
lied,  he  had  left  the  room  and  gone  upstairs  to  his 
brother.  The  next  instant  the  lamp-glass  exploded, 
and  the  light  went  out.  .  .  .  Vaulting  over  the 


194  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

window-sill,  I  paced  restlessly  up  and  down,  to  the 
sound  of  Andre's  voice  overhead,  calm  and  incisive. 

A  sudden  chill  drew  me  to  the  crackling  hearth. 
Sinking  to  a  knee,  I  stirred  the  embers  with  the 
nose  of  the  bellows,  and  then  began  to  blow.  Up 
flew  the  ash,  laying  bare  something  that  glinted 
yellow  as  the  firelight.  .  .  . 

Poker  in  hand,  I  raked  out  first,  a  brass  ring, 
and  then  an  inscription-plate  of  brass,  both  belong 
ing  to  Jeannette's  dog-collar.  Picking  them  up  with 
the  tongs,  I  dipped  them  again  and  again  into  a 
bucket  of  cold  water,  after  which  I  slipped  them 
into  my  breast  pocket.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  salle  basse  seemed  strangely  unfamiliar 
to  me,  as  I  stood  bereft.  Empty,  silent,  depressing 
as  a  new-dug  grave.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "You  would  mourn  me  equally  with  her. 
.  .  .  She  would  not  grudge  me  an  equal  share, 
surely?"  Jeannette  had  implored.  .  .  .  And  what 
had  I  answered?  .  .  .  "No,  by  Heaven,  no!"  .  .  . 
Was  it  true  now — true  that  maman  still  held  abso 
lute  sway  over  the  past,  now  that  the  present  was 
one  with  it,  and  the  future  a  blank?  .  .  .  Instinc 
tively,  I  turned  to  the  Vacant  Chair  in  the  corner 
by  the  grandfather-clock:  and  the  silence  was  ex 
plained;  the  Chair  alone  stood  in  its  accustomed 
place.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  What  had  become  of  the  tall  clock  which 
chimed  the  hours  twice  over? — the  clock  with  the 
snow-white  face,  crowned  with  the  brazen  sun-god 
between  the  sheaves  of  corn,  and  encircled  with 
a  filigree  of  sun-flowers  ?  .  .  . 

Part  of  the  dowry  which  maman  had  brought 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  195 

to  the  penniless  noble,  Charles  du  Quesnoy,  along 
with  the  snowy  linen,  the  antique  armories  and 
dressers,  the  old  china  and  silver  plate,  not  to  count 
the  live  stock  that  had  filled  sheepcot,  byre,  and 
stables  —  how  her  simple  yeoman  heart  would 
have  ached  had  she  lived  to  find  the  tall  clock  gone ! 
.  .  .  She  had  always  wound  it  up  herself  every 
Sunday  morning  before  going  to  early  Mass — 
that  is,  until  I  was  tall  enough  to  reach  the  keyhole, 
when,  as  an  especial  favour,  she  would  sometimes 
allow  me  to  do  it  for  her,  standing  by  with  anxious 
face  the  while,  and  crying:  "Be  careful,  filston,  to 
the  right,  remember."  .  .  .  Her  pride  had  known 
no  bounds  when  I  could  reach  up  and  dust  the  top 
without  standing  on  a  chair.  .  .  .  "There  is  only 
one  other  man  in  the  whole  pays  who  could  do  the 
like,"  she  had  cried  in  that  deep,  mellow  voice  which 
no  other  woman  could  match :  "and  he  also  is  a  son 
of  mine,  Dieu  nierci  .  .  .  Dame!  Jean,  I  will  have 
thee  stand  back  to  back  with  Jacques,  when  he 
comes  home  to  dinner."  And  she  had  laughed 
till  the  rafters  rang  to  be  the  mother  of  two  such 
stalwart  men.  .  .  Jacques,  it  is  true,  had  proved 
to  be  the  taller — by  the  breadth  of  her  thumb-nail, 
as  maman  had  quickly  added  to  comfort  the  smaller 
man;  but  he  was  never  so  fleet  of  foot  or  so  quick 
of  hand  as  myself.  ...  It  was  always  I  that  was 
sent  to  do  the  extra  shopping  in  the  City  on  the 
Hill,  seven  kilometres  away  to  the  east.  If  she 
gave  me  an  hour  and  a  half,  she  could  count  upon 
my  being  back  with  every  thing  that  had  slipped 
her  memory. 

.  "Thou    art    the    last    messenger    I    would 


196  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

send  to  bring  death  to  my  bedside,  my  Bienvenu!" 
she  had  delightedly  exclaimed  on  one  occasion.  .  .  . 
Alas,  the  Reaper  had  outstripped  the  fleetest  horse 
in  the  stables  when  I  rode  to  fetch  the  doctor  to 
her  sick  bed.  He  would  have  made  excuse,  plead 
ing  a  busy  day.  I  cut  him  short,  caught  hold  of 
him  by  the  collar  and  the  seat  of  his  breeches,  and 
swung  him  across  my  saddle-bow;  nor  would  I 
heed  the  protestations  which  were  shaken  out  of  him 
on  the  way  back,  but  galloped  the  faster  the  louder 
he  groaned.  .  .  .  "Maman,  here's  the  doctor!"  I 
had  triumphantly  exclaimed,  as  he  crept  panting 
for  breath  to  her  bedside.  "Now  you  will  soon  be 
better  again!"  .  .  . 

.  .  .  No !  By  Heaven,  no,  Jeannette !  I  do  not 
mourn  your  loss  equally  with  hers,  though  she 
never  grudged  a  soul  a  share  in  my  affections,  if  it 
would  make  me  happier — it  never  did — it  never  will 
— it  never  shall !  .  .  .  Never  shall,  Jeannette ! 

Was  it  the  creaking  of  the  stairs  which  awoke  me 
out  of  my  muse?  Possibly  it  was,  for  through  the 
curtained  doorway  came  Andre. 

I  jumped  up  and  offered  him  a  chair  by  the  fire 
side.  We  sat  down  face  to  face.  For  a  few 
moments  neither  of  us  said  a  word.  For  my  part, 
my  thoughts  had  returned  to  the  Door  that  had 
opened  upon  the  past  ...  It  was  Andre  who  was 
the  first  to  break  the  silence.  .  .  . 

"Jacques  is  worn  out,  and  will  sleep  off  his 
fatigue  to-day." 

"Will  he?"  shouted  the  voice  of  Jacques  from 
the  stairway:  "catch  him  cowering  between  the 
sheets  when  there's  a  man's  work  to  be  done  down- 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  197 

stairs."  And  the  next  instant  he  was  in  our  midst, 
his  hair  in  wild  disorder,  his  night-shirt  tucked 
hastily  in  his  trousers,  his  feet  bare,  his  eyes  blood 
shot  and  glaring  madly  into  mine.  .  .  . 

I  leaped  to  my  feet,  eager  for  the  tussle  which  I 
knew  must  come.  ...  It  would  have  cleared  the 
air,  Andre,  if  you  had  allowed  us  to  fight  it  out  to 
a  finish. 

As  for  my  opponent's  attitude  during  the  family 
council  that  followed  your  untimely  interference, 
you  will  have  drawn  your  own  conclusions.  To 
me,  Jacques  seemed  far  too  eager  to  accept  the  clue 
which  you  suggested,  and  which,  if  true,  would 
prove  Jeannette  to  have  been  false  to  him  and  true 
to  no  one  but  Gerard  du  Quesnoy. 

Thank  you  for  calling  me  "brother"  on  my  con 
senting  to  go  to  Brussels.  I  couldn't  believe  my 
ears.  Struggle  as  I  might,  that  sob  would  out  be 
fore  I  could  turn  my  head  away.  You  must  have 
heard  it — would  to  God  maman  had  lived  to  hear 
her  first-born  call  her  adopted  son  his  brother !  .  .  . 
Who  knows,  perhaps  it  was  she  who  whispered  the 
suggestion  to  your  mind,  for  I  had  flung  the  door 
wide  open  through  which  she  comes  to  me  when  I 
need  her  most. 

What  an  engrossing  task  it  is  which  you  have  set 
me,  Andre!  I  no  sooner  set  to  work  than  I  felt  a 
new  man,  discovering  in  my  heart  some  depths  un 
suspected  :  in  my  mind  a  hive  of  teeming  ideas  that 
would  try  to  insist  upon  interposing  between  my 
homely  narrative  and  its  predestined  course :  how 
to  split  some  straw  in  logic,  now  to  probe  some  ill- 
considered  utterance  to  its  source.  .  .  .  Merci!  I 


198  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

had  as  lief  go  plough  the  desert  sand :  and  so  I  let 
them  know  before  they  could  trickle  out  with  the 
ink,  and  perplex  this  simple  narrative  from  the 
greves. 

The  open  Door  is  open  still.  .  .  . 


Andre  has  just  returned  this  MS.  of  mine.  To 
judge  from  its  disorder,  its  perusal  must  have  dis 
tressed  him  beyond  the  common.  Well,  was  it  not 
to  win  back  my  self-esteem  that  I  made  such  frank 
confession?  .  .  . 

I  put  the  sheets  together  again,  then  leaned  back 
with  a  sense  of  great  weariness,  as  I  told  myself 
how  weak  we  mortals  are ;  how  powerful  the  forces 
which  fight  against  us;  how  strong  the  weakest 
woman,  does  she  but  know  how  to  use  her  strength. 


We  all  met  at  supper. 

I  could  not  meet  Andre's  eyes :  nor  did  he  seek 
mine. 

When  the  meal  was  ended,  I  took  advantage  of 
Jacques'  momentary  absence  to  broach  the  subject 
of  our  thoughts. 

"Yes,  I  know  I  am  much  to  blame,"  I  burst  out 
in  my  headlong  fashion,  as  though  answering  some 
unspoken  speech  of  his. 

"Who  is  wholly  free  from  blame?"  he  answered. 
"Win  the  strength  to  resist  the  appeal  which 
women  make  to  you,  Jean,"  he  added. 


THE  VACANT  CHAIR  199 

"You  shall  find  me  stronger  on  my  return,"  was 
my  hopeful  reply. 

And  then  Jacques  came  back  and  the  night  ad 
vanced,  sullen  as  his  brooding  face,  stealthy  as  his 
restless  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 

It  was  Jacques  and  Andre  who  made  the  first 
move  for  bed. 

"Sleep  well,"  said  I,  as  I  bade  the  latter  good 
night  :  and  my  eyes  met  his  frankly. 

They  left  me  sitting  close  over  the  glowing  logs, 
dreaming  the  dreams  of  youth,  until  at  last  I 
dropped  to  sleep. 


But  sleep  well  I  did  not,  partly  owing  to  my  re 
flections  which  would  not  let  me  rest,  and  partly  to 
the  accompaniment  of  my  brother's  slumbers,  which 
was  more  than  usually  sonorous.  As  I  lay  awake, 
I  told  myself  that  a  snorer  should  sleep  in  a  padded 
room  within  padded  doors,  and  be  condemned  to 
remain  single  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

A  vision  of  Jeannette's  beautiful,  scornful  face 
flashed  up  as  she  would  tell  us  of  the  harmonious 
night  she  had  passed.  That  a  Quesnoy,  of  all  men, 
should  lay  himself  open  every  night,  and  all  night 
long,  to  the  reproach  of  keeping  other  folk  awake 
while  he  wallows  in  sleep  to  the  orchestral  discords 
of  his  nasal  organ,  taxed  my  patience  in  the  end  to 
the  last  extremity  of  endurance,  and  up  I  jumped 
and  ran  upstairs  and  into  his  room,  crying :—  "Au 
feu!  Au  feu!" 

He  uncoiled  his  great  limbs  huddled  up  in  bed, 


200  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

and  sitting  up,  asked  me  what  the  deuce  I  meant  by 
awaking  him  for  a  matter  so  trivial. 

"The  wonder  is  you  did  not  awake  yourself. 
You  were  snoring,  man!"  I  rapped  out. 

"That's  nothing  new,  is  it?  Of  course  I  was 
snoring,  seeing  that  I  was  asleep.  .  .  .  Dead  tired 
I  was.  .  .  .  Dead  dog  tired.  ...  I  could  have 
slept  until  the  crack  of  doom,  if  you  hadn't  awak 
ened  me  with  your  foolish  cry  of  fire.  Let  the  fire 
blaze!  The  brighter  the  better.  I  feel  cold  as  ice. 
Hell  and  damnation!  she  won't  let  me  alone!  .  .  . 
Is  it  freezing,  d'you  think?" 

"No,  it  is  raining." 

"Then  it  was  she  all  right." 

"And  who  is  ...  she?" 

"The  ghost  of  last  night — listen,  is  that  the  tall 
clock  striking?" 

"No,  it  was  you  who  struck  the  clock:  it  will 
never  strike  again."  I  joked  at  a  venture,  but  he 
let  the  words  pass. 

"It  has  struck  my  knell  already,"  he  said,  "... 
twice  over  ...  at  midni — don't  stare  at  me  like 
that,  d'you  think  I'm  raving?" 

I  walked  to  the  door.  "The  next  time  you  have 
the  nightmare,"  I  said,  as  I  opened  it,  "don't  set  it 
to  music :  it  disturbs  my  rest." 

"You  fool,"  he  shouted  after  me,  "oh,  you  fool ! 
You  don't  realise  your  own  immense  happiness! 
If  you  only  knew  what  it  meant  to  have  your  sleep 
broken,  shattered,  murdered,  annihilated,  you — 
you " 

I  closed  the  door  on  his  rising  passion,  and  went 
to  my  own  room  more  thoughtful  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  OPENING  DOOR 
1 

NEXT  morning  I  left  for  Brussels  by  the  early 
train.  As  it  was  moving  out  of  the  station  I  thrust 
my  head  out  of  the  open  window  and  called  to 
Andre,  who  was  about  to  return  home : — 

"One  moment,  Andre !"  He  ran  alongside  my 
solitary  compartment,  as  I  continued :  "Keep  your 
eye  on  Jacques,  or  he'll  be  doing  himself  a  mischief. 
I  am  very  uneasy  about  him.  Jeannette  has  dealt 
him  his  death  blow — he'll  never  get  over  it."  Andre 
smiled  grimly  at  my  words — "I  woke  him  up  last 
night  on  going  to  bed — if  ever  a  man  was  mad,  it 
was  Jacques." 

Andre  laughed :  "Well,  I  am  not  surprised  at 
that!"  said  he.  ...  "Anything  more,  Jean?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  nettled;  "Jacques  said  we  did 
not  realise  our  own  immense  happiness,  and  I,  for 
one,  was  feeling  miserable  enough." 

"Well,  well,"  returned  Andre,  smiling:  "every 
man  thinks  his  own  burden  the  heaviest;  may  I 
hope  that  the  change  of  air  will  lighten  yours? 
Good-bye  to  you,  and  come  back  refreshed.  I  will 
look  after  Jacques." 

201 


202  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

His  callousness  infuriated  me;  my  blood  tingled 
in  my  viens. 

"I  asked  for  bread,  and  you  gave  me  a  stone," 
I  cried  after  him. 

At  that  he  turned,  and  looked  at  me,  and  it  was 
as  though  he  said  :— 

"Nay,  nay,  the  stone  is  in  my  own  heart — still." 

And  mine  melted  in  the  warmth  of  my  sympathy. 
"Good-bye  to  you,  mon  frere!"  I  called,  as  he 
strode  away.  .  .  . 

My  journey  to  Brussels  passed  without  any  in 
cident  worth  recording.  I  arrived  too  late,  and  too 
tired  even,  to  wish  to  prolong  the  leaden  hours  of 
waking :  and  so,  after  two  nights  of  sleepless  un 
rest,  I  drove  to  the  quiet  hotel  off  the  Montagne  de 
la  Cour,  which  a  kindly  porter  had  recommended 
me  to,  and  tumbled  into  bed  at  once,  more  dead 
than  alive. 

Up  betimes,  I  had  an  early  breakfast,  after  which 
I  set  out  for  the  chaussee  de  Charleroi,  where  the 
Marquise  du  Quesnoy  lived,  in  a  house  called  the 
Chateau  de  la  See. 

My  way  lay  up  the  Montagne  de  la  Cour,  just 
awakening  to  outshine  the  clear,  frosty  morning 
with  its  blaze  of  jewels  and  show  of  luxury  of  every 
sort;  down  the  broad  avenue  of  lime-trees  known 
by  the  name  of  the  Boulevard  de  la  Toison  d'Or, 
to  the  lower  end  of  the  chestnut  Avenue  Louise. 
Both  thoroughfares  being  still  locked  in  sleep,  I 
turned  into  the  chaussee  de  Charleroi,  on  the  right, 
with  scant  hope  of  getting  an  answer  to  my  knock 
at  the  Chateau  de  la  See.  Still  on  I  went,  in  order 
that  I  might  get  a  glimpse  of  a  house,  whose  very 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  203 

name  was  sweet  to  me  in  my  exile,  breathing,  as 
it  did,  of  home  with  a  promise  of  comfort  to  my 
aching  heart. 

The  Chateau  de  la  See  proved  to  have  little  to 
distinguish  it  from  the  neighbouring  houses;  a 
little  more  pretentious,  a  little  more  ornate,  its 
ityle  was  strangely  inconsistent  with  its  name. 
It  was  only  when  I  came  to  peep  between  the  rail 
ings  into  the  garden  beyond,  with  its  lofty  green 
houses,  its  placid  lake,  and  terraced  lawns,  that  my 
Norman  heart  was  reconciled  to  what  Andre  would 
have  called  the  misnomer.  A  passionate  lover  of 
flowers,  I  was  feasting  my  eyes  on  the  ox-eye 
daisies  and  corn-marigolds,  and  on  the  many- 
coloured  chrysanthemums,  with  their  petals  droop 
ing  like  a  weaver's  thrums,  when  I  heard  a  shrill 
outcry,  and,  turning,  saw  a  great  white  swan  glide 
forward,  breasting  the  lake  with  a  swift  and  noise 
less  stroke,  suggestive  of  the  approach  of  a  serpent, 
fierce  and  stealthy.  On  reaching  the  hither  side,  it 
rushed  towards  me,  half -fly  ing  and  half -running, 
and  came  and  poked  its  snake-like  head  and  neck 
through  the  iron  gate  rails,  greeting  me  with  a  hiss. 

I  crossed  myself  in  a  sudden  panic.  Superstition 
may  be  foolish,  a  relic  of  fetish-worship,  or  what 
you  will ;  I  may  smile  again,  as  I  have  often  smiled, 
.  .  .  but  .  .  .  que  voulez-vous! .  . .  c'est  plus  fort 
que  moi. 

With  a  foreboding  of  trouble  strong  upon  me,  I 
ran  up  the  perron  and  rang  the  bell.  On  the  instant, 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  flunkey  in  a  plum-col 
oured  livery:  he  had  evidently  been  at  work  in  the 
hall. 


204  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"At  what  time  can  I  see  madame  la  marquise?" 
I  asked. 

"Madame  la  marquise  does  not  receive  to-day, 
monsieur.  Her  'at  home'  is  the  day  after  to 
morrow." 

"I  arrived  from  Normandy  last  night.  Perhaps 
madame  la  marquise  will  be  good  enough  to  make 
an  exception  in  favour  of  a  fellow-countryman." 

"What  name,  monsieur?" 

Dame!  I  hadn't  thought  of  a  name!  I  hesitat 
ed,  but  only  for  a  second,  then  I  gave  my  regimental 
name. 

"Dame!"  I  replied:  "my  name  is  Jean  Bienvenu, 
voila!" 

"Perhaps  monsieur  will  call  in  the  afternoon  for 
an  answer.  Madame  la  marquise  only  returned 
from  the  court  ball  three  hours  ago,  and  is  still 
asleep." 

"When  is  she  likely  to  be  awake  ?" 

"At  noon,  monsieur." 

"I  will  call  then.  By  the  bye,  tell  madame  la 
marquise  that  I  live  with  Count  Andre  du  Ques- 
noy." 

"Bien,  monsieur." 

Four  hours  to  wait  ...  to  fill.  .  .  .  And  not  a 
soul  to  keep  me  company.  The  prospect  looked 
dreary.  Then,  the  spirit  of  adventure  awaking,  I 
set  out  to  seek  a  better  fortune.  I  had  not  walked 
more  than  a  mile  from  the  angry  swan,  when,  by 
a  stroke  of  luck,  I  met  coming  towards  me  a  tiny 
grisette,  neat  as  a  new  pin,  with  a  pretty,  tired  face ! 
Laden,  as  she  was,  with  three  tiers  of  cardboard 
boxes  which  would  keep  slipping  from  her  embrace, 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  205 

what  more  natural  than  that  I  should  offer  to  bear 
the  burden  for  her,  or  that  she  should  rejoice  to  be 
quit  of  it  ?  As  she  tripped  along  beside  me  the  look 
of  weariness  that  had  drawn  me  to  her  soon  gave 
way  to  the  sunniest  smile  imaginable,  and  in  next 
to  no  time  she  was  unbosoming  herself  of  all  her 
worries  in  my  sympathetic  ear.  Her  name  was 
Margot  Voissaert,  and  she  lived  with  her  mother 
in  the  Impasse  de  la  Violette,  earning  a  living  for 
them  both  by  her  wonderful  skill  with  the  needle. 
The  contents  of  the  boxes  I  was  carrying  for  her, 
"saves-vous,"  was  the  work  of  her  nimble  fingers. 
A  terrible  woman,  her  mother,  from  the  hints 
Margot  dropped.  I  gleaned  enough  to  divine  that 
she  would  have  welcomed  me  with  open  arms,  the 
wretch!  On  reaching  the  Avenue  Louise,  Margot, 
to  my  surprise,  turned  up  the  chaussee  de  Charler- 
oi ;  and,  on  my  questioning  her  as  to  her  destination, 
she  told  me  that  she  was  taking  a  ball  dress  to  the 
Marquise  du  Quesnoy. 

"I  will  wait  for  you  here,  if  you  don't  mind," 
said  I.  And  on  her  return,  I  took  her  to  the  Bois 
de  la  Cambre,  where  we  played  hide-and-seek,  like 
a  couple  of  school  children  out  for  a  holiday;  and 
when  the  game  was  over,  we  went  for  a  row  on  the 
lake,  and,  much  to  Margot's  delight,  brought  the 
mornings  outing  to  a  conclusion  by  having  break 
fast  at  the  cafe  on  the  island.  By  the  time  she  had 
satisfied  her  appetite— and,  as  she  put  it,  elle  man- 
geait  comme  quatrc,  saves-vous— it  was  close  on 
twelve  o'clock.  So,  having  seen  her  safely  off  in  the 
tram,  I  jumped  into  a  passing  cab  and  drove  back  to 
the  Chateau  de  la  See. 


206  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

This  time  the  footman  in  the  purple  livery  bade 
me  enter,  and  I  followed  him  into  the  hall.  There 
he  left  me  to  admire  the  Oriental  tapestries,  and  a 
whole  armoury  of  uncouth  weapons,  which  spoke  of 
travels  in  many  outlandish  places.  Sumptuous  as 
was  this  vaulted  hall,  I  much  preferred  to  it  the 
simplicity  of  our  homely  salle  basse,  where  every 
thing  breathed  of  industry  and  thrift,  and  was  there 
for  use.  What  could  be  more  homely  than  the  great 
log  fire  in  a  Norman  hearth,  with  the  burnished  cop 
per  and  brass  pans  on  the  broad  mantelpiece  above? 
.  .  .  what  more  artistic  than  a  great  armoire  of 
polished  oak  or  walnut  with  its  brass  fittings  shining 
in  the  firelight  ?  ...  or  what,  again,  could  be  more 
cheering  to  the  Norman  heart  than  the  smell  of  the 
flitches  of  bacon  on  the  rafters,  or  the  sight  of  the 
mighty  cask  of  oak  containing  enough  cider  to 
quench  even  a  Norman's  thirst  every  day  in  the 
year  ?  .  .  .  No,  by  Heaven !  I  would  not  change 
places  with  the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy  for  all  the 
treasures  which  hinted  at  the  sacking  of  a  score  of 
far-flung  cities  in  the  East  .  .  .  Let  me,  by  some 
happy  inspiration,  but  lead  her  on  to  tell  me  the 
address  of  her  husband,  and,  like  a  homing  pigeon 
uncaged,  I  would  soon  be  within  reach  of  where  the 
two  rivers  almost  meet  by  our  Hawthorn  Ferry 
Farm!  .  .  . 

Yes,  yes,  but  how  in  the  world  was  I  to  surprise 
her  confidence  without  betraying  Jeannette  or  giv 
ing  away  the  family  honour?  ...  It  was  all  very 
fine  for  Andre  to  father  upon  me  that  precious  sug 
gestion  of  falsehood.  He  wouldn't  like  to  act  upon 
it  himself,  so  why  should  I  put  myself  at  a  disad- 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  207 

vantage  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy?  .  .  .  Jean- 
nette,  now,  would  have  gained  her  end  and  left  her 
victim  to  triumph  in  the  belief  that  she  had  hood 
winked  her  visitor.  With  equal  ease,  Jacqueline 
Lolif,  little  witch,  would  have  outwitted  discretion 
itself,  while  seeming  to  heighten  the  quality,  just  as 
she  had  once  lured  me  on  to  make  love  to  her  on  the 
greve,  and  then  sent  me  home  rejoicing  in  my  irre 
sistible  fascination  for  the  sex.  But  I  that  couldn't 
even  keep  my  own  secrets,  how  could  I  expect 
to  ... 

A  door  opened  behind  a  tapestry  curtain,  and  a 
man  I  had  never  chanced  to  meet  till  then  stepped 
thoughtfully  into  the  room. 

A  face  made  up  of  contradictions :  the  jet-black 
eyes  and  flaxen  hair  were  not  in  stronger  contrast 
than  were  the  thought-worn  brow  and  sensual 
mouth.  I  was  on  my  guard  at  once. 

The  feeling  of  dislike  grew  when  he  reached  out 
his  hand  to  me,  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  made 
me  frown.  In  a  woman's,  the  expression  would 
have  delighted  me ;  in  a  man's,  and  that  man  a  com 
plete  stranger  to  me,  it  produced  a  feeling  of  nausea. 
Dame!  the  fellow's  eyes  were  full  of  a  melting 
tenderness ! 

He  quickly  changed  colour  under  my  steady  gaze, 
began  to  fidget  with  his  feet,  to  fumble  with  the 
moustache,  which  reminded  me  of  a  woman's 
pencilled  eyebrow. 

"You  appear  to  know  me  better  than  I  know 
you,"  I  ironically  remarked:  "yet,  for  the  life  of  me 
I  cannot  imagine  how  I  could  have  forgotten  you." 

A  stealthy  flush  stole  into  the  olive  skin ;  his  eyes 


208  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

blinked  as  I  held  them  with  my  own.  .  .  .  From 
the  room  behind  the  curtain  came  the  strains  of  a 
fiddle,  sobbing  out  a  question  that  could  find  no 
answer :  the  eternal  Whence  ?  .  .  .  the  everlasting 
Whither?  .  .  .  the  ever-recurring  Why?  .  .  . 

The  music  seemed  to  soothe  away  his  confusion. 
Under  its  spell  the  whole  man  changed.  Had  he 
greeted  me  as  he  now  appeared,  he  might  have  won 
my  friendship;  but  as  it  was,  I  disliked  him  more 
than  ever.  Que  voulez-vous!  I  have  the  same  con 
tempt  for  music  that  I  have  for  the  stimulants 
which  produce  Dutch  courage.  Before  the  music 
stopped,  the  fellow  had  played  a  dozen  parts,  each 
more  heroic  than  the  preceding  one,  to  judge  from 
the  light  in  his  eyes,  the  resolute  tightening  of  the 
full-lipped  mouth,  the  welcome  indifference  to  my 
humble  presence.  The  fiddle  had  no  sooner  shriek 
ed  itself  to  sleep  than  he  awoke  to  a  sense  of  reality : 
this  time  with  a  love-sick  yearning  whimpering  on 
his  lips.  Then,  somewhat  crestfallen : — 

"Excuse  my  forgetfulness,"  said  he,  and  his  voice 
was  not  unpleasant,  "but  music  is  one  of  my  pas 
sions.  Do  you  share  it?" 

"I  most  decidedly  do  not." 

"I  was  forgetting :  you  are  not  very  musical  in 
your  part  of  Normandy,  are  you?" 

"I  am  not  musical  anywhere,  monsieur,"  I  re 
plied.  "Pardon  my  frankness,  but  might  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  madame  la  marquise  du  Ques- 
noy?" 

"Perhaps  you  will  give  us  the  pleasure  of  lunch 
ing  with  us?  My  name  is  Leon  de  Tesson,  private 
secretary,  librarian,  and  curator  to  the  Marquis  du 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  209 

Quesnoy,  now  unfortunately  absent  on  a  visit  to  the 
French  Consul-General  in  Odessa,  who,  like  him 
self,  is  an  enthusiastic  curio-hunter." 

Heavens,  what  luck!  Hastily  declining  the  in 
vitation  on  the  usual  pretext  of  a  previous  engage 
ment,  and  foolishly  accepting  another  to  dinner  the 
next  day,  I  shook  his  hand  at  the  front  door  with  a 
warmth  that  made  him  wince;  and,  as  soon  as  he 
had  re-entered  the  house,  ran  as  fast  as  I  could  lay 
legs  to  the  ground  to  the  nearest  telegraph  office, 
where  I  wired  to  Andre  :— 

"French  Consulate,  Odessa." 

It  was  not  until  I  had  written  down  the  address 
that  I  grasped  its  full  significance.  To  me,  it  was 
proof  positive  that  Jeannette  had  not  eloped  with 
Gerard  du  Quesnoy;  to  Andre,  whose  synthetical 
mind  (I  find  I'm  borrowing  a  good  many  of  his 
terms)  would  not  allow  him  to  jump  hastily  to  con 
clusions,  it  might  possibly  appear  a  poste  restante 
address  to  cover  the  actual  whereabouts  of  the  run 
away  couple ;  yet  I  was  as  certain  that  Andre  would 
follow  up  the  doubtful  clue  without  counting  the 
cost,  as  I  was  determined  to  return  home  by  the  first 
train  I  could  catch  after  the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy's 
dinner  to  unravel,  on  the  spot,  the  mystery  of  Jean- 
nette's  disappearance.  In  fact,  I  was  so  eager  to 
pit  my  intuition  against  Andre's  reasoning,  and  so 
impatient  to  begin  at  once,  that  I  was  more  than 
half -inclined  to  plead  my  recall  as  an  excuse  for  cut 
ting  the  invitation  I  had  accepted.  The  inclination 
to  do  so  grew  so  strong  in  the  course  of  the  after- 


210  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

noon,  that  I  rushed  to  the  General  Post  Office  close 
by  my  hotel,  and  had  even  handed  the  clerk  a  tele 
gram,  when  I  snatched  it  back,  saying: — 

"No,  I  won't  send  it  after  all,  I've  changed  my 
mind." 

Who  can  account  for  these  sudden  impulses,  or 
afford  wilfully  to  disregard  them?  For  my  part,  I 
follow  them  blindly,  as  being  dictated  by  that  kind 
ling  spark  within  us  which  rises  above  the  human 
reason;  and  I  owe  it  to  maman's  wise  training  of 
the  instincts  that  I  share  with  women  this  power  of 
outstripping  those  who  are  guided  to  their  conclus 
ions  by  a  laborious  building-up  of  evidence.  In 
deed,  what  do  I  not  owe  to  her  loving  kindness  and 
mother-wit?  I  should  be  an  ingrate  ingrained  were 
I  now  to  reverse  her  teaching.  Not  that  I  was  in 
any  danger  of  doing  so.  Quite  the  contrary.  Just 
as  I  had  been  all  eagerness  to  be  gone,  so  now  I  was 
all  impatience  to  see  what  the  morrow  would  bring. 
Both  were  counsels  of  impulse,  only  the  second  had 
outweighed  the  first.  Therefore  I  decided  to  stay. 
Kismet. 

On  leaving  the  General  Post  Office,  I  wandered 
in  and  out  of  a  network  of  winding  streets,  until 
at  last  my  steps  were  arrested  by  my  catching  sight 
of  the  name,  Impasse  de  la  Violette.  Kismet,  again. 

To  think  of  Margot  Voissaert,  was  to  knock  at 
her  door;  to  obey  the  irresistible  impulse,  was  to 
find  her  at  home ;  to  dread  meeting  her  mother,  was 
to  see  my  fears  confirmed. 

Heavens  above,  what  a  woman!  ...  It  is  best 
to  let  her  speak  for  herself. 

"Why,  Margot,"  I  cried :  "you  look  more  tired 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  211 

than  ever.  I  had  hoped  to  find  you  merry  as  a 
lark  after  our  pleasant  outing  this  morning." 

"Tired?"  sneered  her  mother:  "Of  course  she's 
tired,  monsieur.  Stitch,  stitch,  stitch!  Sew,  sew, 
sew !  morning,  noon,  and  night.  .  .  .  And  she  who 
might  be  riding  in  her  carriage  to  her  box  at  the 
Eden  Theatre  with  a  face  as  pretty  as  hers.  Ay,  if 
she'd  listen  to  me,  savez-vous,  we  shouldn't  be  living 
at  Sbis  Impasse  de  la  Violette,  monsieur." 

"Nor,  I'll  be  bound,  if  she  would  listen  to  the  man 
who'd  think  himself  lucky  to  marry  her,"  I  inter 
rupted  hotly. 

"Meaning  yourself,  monsieur?" 

"Mother,  how  dare  you!" 

"Meaning  a  much  better  man  than  myself, 
madame." 

"If  she's  been  telling  you  about  the  footman  at 
the  Chateau  de  la  See,  monsieur,  all  I  can  say  is  I'll 
never  allow  her  to  throw  herself  away  on  the  likes 
of  him — she  who  might  raise  her  eyes  to  those  who 
keep  'em." 

"Charles  Lorin  is  as  good  as  his  master,  any  day, 
mother,"  burst  out  Margot,  her  eyes  ablaze. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!" 

"It's  a  good  Norman  name,  anyhow,"  I  inter 
posed,  "if  not  so  old  as  Quesnoy." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  monsieur,  Margot's  that 
unreasonable  there's  no  doing  anything  with  her. 
I'm  sure  she  gets  the  best  advice  from  me,  who 
knows  the  way  of  the  world  and  that  what  pays 
counts.  She's  not  above  making  ball  dresses  for  the 
Marquise  du  Quesnoy,  but  she  is  above  doing  as  her 
ladyship  does,  and  the  whole  town  knows.  .  .  ." 


212  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Hush!  Mother!  do,  please,  be  quiet." 

"I  hush?  The  very  idea!  As  if  monsieur  didn't 
know  the  story!  Why,  the  whole  town  has  rung 
with  it  these  twenty-three  years,  if  not  more.  Every 
body  knows  she's  the  mistress  of  the  Vicomte  de 
Tesson,  her  husband's  Jack-of-all-trades.  Ay, 
savez-vous,  and  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  they 
hadn't  a  child  hidden  away  somewhere.  When 
I  was  a  girl,  I  remember,  la  marquise  du  Quesnoy— 
Claire  with  the  Chestnut  Hair,  as  she  was  called  at 
court — disappeared  rather  mysteriously.  People 
did  say  she  had  been  wearing  her  gowns  very  loose, 
to  ease  her  growing  embonpoint,  savez-vous;  and  I 
know  for  a  fact  that  Leon  de  Tesson  had  been  over 
a  year  at  the  Chateau  de  la  See,  and  that  Claire  du 
Quesnoy's  figure  was  as  slim  as  ever  on  her  return 
to  society." 

Without  a  word,  Margot  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
carrying  her  neat  little  head  as  high  as  it  would 
stretch  on  the  slender  neck,  and  reminding  me  of  a 
marguerite  in  some  mean  alley  reaching  out  to  the 
sunshine  and  the  fresh  air.  I  decided  that  Charles 
Lorin  should  transplant  her  in  more  congenial  soil. 

"Madame,"  I  said,  on  rising  to  say  good-bye,  "I 
trust  I  shall  find  the  talk  not  less  interesting  when 
I  dine  at  the  Chateau  de  la  See  to-morrow  evening." 

In  her  consternation,  Madame  Voissaert  dropped 
into  the  third  person. 

"Monsieur  will  not  breath  a  word  of  this  foolish 
gossip?  The  things  that  spiteful  Liberals  will  say 
of  the  highborn  Catholics  would  surprise  monsieur. 
For  me,  I  am  a  Catholic,  thank  God,  and  proud 
that  Margot  should  have  such  a  cliente  as  la  mar- 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  213 

quise  du  Quesnoy;  as  virtuous  a  lady  as  I  am  my 
self,  as  I  was  about  to  tell  monsieur,  when  Margot 
banged  the  door  and  put  it  out  of  my  head." 

"It  must  be  a  great  comfort  to  you,  madame," 
I  replied,  "that  the  Catholic  Party  has  been  so  long 
in  power  in  Belgium.  You  can  rely  upon  my  singing 
Margot's  skill,  and  her  simplicity,  when  I  see  her 
latest  creation  to-morrow  evening." 

Margot  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  front  door. 

"I  have  just  been  telling  your  mother,  Margot, 
that  I  am  dining  at  the  Chateau  de  la  See  to-morrow. 
Have  you  any  message  for  Charles  Lorin?" 

"That  will  be  Friday,  will  it  not?  It  is  his  even 
ing  out  on  Saturday.  Would  you  mind  telling  him 
to  meet  me  at  seven  o'clock,  at  the  top  of  the  Mon- 
tagne  de  la  Cour?" 

"On  the  contrary  I  should  be  delighted.  Take 
my  advice,  Margot — marry  him." 

"He  has  saved  almost  enough  money  to  buy  a 
little  farm  in  Normandy,  and  would  dearly  love  to 
return  home.  .  .  .  And.  I  think  ...  I  should  like 
to  go  with  him." 

"How  much  more  money  does  he  need?" 

"Oh,  ever  such  a  lot:  another  thousand  francs,  I 
think  he  said." 

"And  where  is  the  farm?" 

"At  the  Coin  a  la  Carelle,  on  the  River  See. 
Funny  isn't  it,  living,  as  he  does,  at  the  Chateau  de 
la  See?  I  always  feel  I  know  that  river." 

"Wonders  will  never  cease!  Why,  I  live  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stream,  at  the  Bac  de  1'Epine.  I 
told  your  fiance,  when  I  called  this  morning,  that 
I  was  a  Littremont  man,  and  not  a  muscle  of  his 


214  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

face  moved.   I  can't  help  wondering  whether  he  will 
keep  as  still  a  face  when  I  order  him  to  meet  you 
next  Saturday  at  seven  o'clock,  or  whether  he  will 
call  me  to  book  for  stealing  a  march  on  him." 
"And,  oh!  so  do  I!  ...     What  fun!" 
"If  he  should  be  jealous,  d'you  mean?" 
We   both   burst   out   laughing,   and   so   parted : 
she,  no  doubt,  to  hear  vice  extolled  at  the  cost  of 
virtue;   I,  an   hour  or  two   later,   to   witness   the 
auditing  of   the   accounts   between   the   two,   as   I 
sat  listening  to  Marguerite's  pathetic  story  as  inter 
preted  by  Rose  Caron,  prima  donna  of  the  Paris 
Opera  House,  who  was  on  a  visit  to  the  scenes  of 
her  former  triumphs.  .  .  . 


Lest  my  presence  at  the  Monnaie  should  surprise 
you,  my  dear  Andre,  after  my  professed  dislike  of 
music,  I  make  haste  to  explain  that  I  had  gone  out 
of  no  love  for  such  entertainments,  nor  even  to  be 
kindled  to  the  marrow  by  the  playing  of  the  greatest 
actress  of  our  times;  but  only  to  get  a  nearer  view 
of  the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy,  and  the  Vicomte  de 
Tesson,  who  had  chanced  to  pass  me  in  her  broug 
ham  and  pair,  as  I  strolled  across  the  Place  de  la 
Monnaie  after  dinner. 

Always  Kismet,  you  see,  acting  through  my  im 
pulsive  nature,  as  it  was  Kismet  yet  again,  this  time 
masquerading  as  Chance,  that  nudged  me  to  book 
a  seat  in  the  Upper  Circle,  which  turned  out  to  be 
directly  opposite  to  the  box  in  which  the  reputed 
lovers  were  sitting  in  the  Circle  below,  thus  afford- 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  215 

ing  me  the  very  best  opportunity  of  satisfying  my 
curiosity. 

Often  as  I  had  seen  Claire  du  Quesnoy  on  her 
visits  to  her  country  seat  in  Normandy,  it  had 
always  been  in  the  distance,  or  in  a  flash,  as  she  can 
tered  past  me  on  horseback.  Now,  for  the  first  time, 
I  could  observe  her  at  my  ease,  or,  if  you  will,  ad 
mire  her  to  my  heart's  content.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  ac 
knowledge  the  attraction  women  have  for  me,  An 
dre,  none  the  less  I  will  grow  strong  enough  to  resist. 

What  a  lovely  creature  she  is !  Not  one  woman 
in  ten  million,  no,  nor  in  thirty,  would  dare  to  dress 
her  hair  as  Claire  du  Quesnoy  dresses  it :  not  to 
soften  the  face  still  more  than  Nature  has  softened 
it  already,  by  covering  the  brow  with  a  cluster  of 
curls  to  the  eyebrows,  but  to  deck  the  noble  fore 
head  as  with  a  coronet  of  gold.  Wise  woman! 
She  doubtless  felt  that,  with  her  heart  too  tenderly 
shining  in  her  eyes,  as  it  was,  and  almost  leaping  to 
her  lips,  her  face  needed  just  that  touch  of  reserve 
which  would  be  disclosed  by  the  marble  whiteness 
of  the  serene  brow.  And  how  perennially  young 
she  looked  to-night!  "Enamel,  thou  song-sewer!" 
you  will  exclaim  here.  "Why,  she  is  forty-five  if 
she  is  a  day!"  I  will  never  believe  it.  Look,  her 
colour  comes  and  goes,  and,  like  the  passage  of  the 
years,  leaves  the  face  the  fairer!  Nay,  nay,  you 
sceptic,  she  will  be  adorable  and,  consequently, 
adored,  when  you  and  I  are  toothless  dotards 
babbling  of  the  past. 

Suddenly,  her  companion  looked  up  and  saw  me. 
He  gave  me  a  friendly  nod,  and  then  drew  her 
attention  to  my  presence.  She  had  looked  surpass- 


216  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

ingly  beautiful  before,  but  now,  as  she  smiled  up 
at  me,  she  eclipsed  herself  in  every  charm  that  went 
to  make  her  the  most  lovely  woman  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Leon  de  Tesson  loved  her 
— for  I  had  got  his  story  by  heart,  before  he  had 
stolen  his  second  glance  at  her,  from  behind  the 
box  curtains :  a  glance  which  was  returned,  now 
by  an  almost  breathless  look  of  expectation,  now 
by  a  radiant  smile  of  triumph.  Look  and  smile 
alike  puzzled  me  completely;  both  were  so  spon 
taneous  and  so  fresh.  Surely,  after  so  many  years, 
every  expectation  must  have  been  realised  or  aban 
doned,  every  triumph  have  met  its  Nemesis  ? 

My  own  Nemesis  had  struck  so  swiftly  I  had 
scarcely  felt  the  blow.  .  .  . 

Strange,  isn't  it,  that  I  should  use  the  pluperfect 
in  connection  with  Jeannette,  as  of  an  episode  that 
is  over  and  done  with?  .  .  . 

What  will  you  say  to  that,  I  wonder.  Will  you 
tell  me  that  a  love  episode  is  never  done  with  unless 
the  love  be  gone.  And  will  you,  taking  it  for  grant 
ed  that  I  have  forgotten  Jeannette  already,  proceed 
to  explain  to  me  that  the  use  of  the  pluperfect  was 
not  a  mere  slip  of  the  pen,  which  could  be  corrected 
with  a  stroke  of  the  same  offender,  but  a  revelation 
of  the  subconscious  Ego,  to  which  (or  should  I  say 
to  whom?)  you  attribute  the  blame,  or  the  honour, 
of  so  many  of  your  own  thoughts  and  actions? 

A  pity  a  creature  so  beautiful  should  be  child 
less.  .  .  . 

And  there  is  another  riddle  for  you.  What  in 
fluence  was  it  that  prompted  the  marquise  to  look 
straight  up  into  my  eyes  as  that  thought  rose  almost 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  217 

to  my  lips  as  I  gazed  down  upon  her?  Was  it  a 
brain-wave,  or  a  heart-wave,  of  my  subconscious 
individuality  which  bade  her  seek  out  her  sym 
pathiser  in  my  direction?  And  was  it  in  quick 
response  to  a  companion  wave  of  the  brain  or  the 
heart  of  her  instinctive  Self,  that  I  jumped  up, 
as  soon  as  her  eyes  met  mine,  and  ran  down  the 
staircase  to  knock  at  her  box?  .  .  .  Tell  me,  by 
what  charm  were  we  drawn  each  to  each  so  irre 
sistibly?  .  .  .  No,  no,  it  was  not  by  love  on  either 
side :  you  must  keep  your  banter  in  reserve,  till  I 
have  earned  its  sting,  and  she  is  by  to  brush  it  aside 
with  a  smile,  sweet  enough,  believe  me,  to  re-unite 
your  (or  may  I  say  our?)  houses. 

Well,  I  knocked. 

"Entrez,"  cried  a  voice  I  had  never  heard  before, 
but  yet  knew  to  be  hers. 

I  stepped  into  the  box.    Her  eyes  held  me. 

"I  have  come  to  apologise  for  running  away  this 
morning,  madame,"  I  said,  bowing. 

She  reached  out  her  hand,  and  drew  me  to  the 
chair  beside  her. 

"So  you  are  Monsieur  Jean  Bienvenu?"  How  her 
voice  shook ! 

"Yes,  madame — that  is  to  say,  Jean  Bienvenu  are 
my  Christian  names;  I  have  no  surname,"  I  added 
carelessly. 

Leon  de  Tesson  stole  away  to  the  foyer,  on  the 
fall  of  the  curtain  on  Act  I. — and  then  I  breathed 
more  freely. 

"Jean — may    I    call    you   Jean    on   so   short   an 
acquaintance? — you  speak  with  no  bitterness.  .  . 
How  is  that?" 


218  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"You  cannot  feel  bitterness,  madame,  where  you 
have  felt  a  mother's  love." 

"Ah,  you  had  your  mother,  then?  That  would 
make  amends."  How  she  watched  me! 

"Not  my  own  mother,  madame — she  deserted 
me;  but  Andre's  took  her  place,  and  she  indeed 
made  amends." 

"Was  she  very,  very  dear  to  you?" 

"Maman! — dear  as  you  would  be  to  your  son, 
madame,  if  you  had  one." 

"You  think  a  son  would  be  fond  of  me,  then?" 

"He  would  never  marry  so  long  as  you  lived!"  I 
enthusiastically  cried. 

She  averted  her  eyes  suddenly.  The  star  on  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell.  There  was  a  thoughtful 
silence.  She  never  turned  her  head  when  next  she 
spoke. 

"Jean,  a  son,  you  said,  would  love  me  as  you 
loved  the  Comtesse  du  Quesnoy.  Tell  me,  could  you 
love  me  as  you  loved  her?  Wait — you  see,  Jean, 
don't  you,  I  feel  strangely  drawn  towards  you,  and 
that  is  why  I  can't  help  wondering  if  you,  too,  feel 
drawn  to  me.  .  .  .  Do  you?" 

"Am  I  not  here,  madame? — yet  you  never  sent 
for  me." 

"And  .  .  .  could  you  ...  ?" 

"Could  I  love  you,  as  I  loved  maman?"  I  cried, 
and  the  question  was  toned  to  supply  the  an 
swer.  The  marquise  took  the  hint,  and  turned  the 
topic. 

"And  why  did  you  run  away  this  morning?"  she 
asked. 

"A  sudden  panic,  a  sudden  fear  of  the  future,  a 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  219 

dread  of  what  might  come  of  the  meeting."  I 
spoke  on  impulse  as  usual. 

"You  are  superstitious,  then?" 

I  told  her  the  stories  of  the  screech-owl,  and  of 
the  white  swan. 

"Fancy  your  being  afraid  of  a  bird,  a  young  giant 
like  you!" 

"Ridiculous,  isn't  it?" 

"Unusual,  certainly  —  perhaps  I  am  too  super 
stitious  myself  to  call  your  superstitions  ridiculous. 
Tiens!  you  have  my  eyes,  as  well  as  my  belief  in 
the  supernatural.  Have  you  noticed  it?"  And  her 
eyes  shone  into  mine  with  a  light  that  nearly  blinded 
them. 

"You  pay  me  the  compliment,  madame,  because 
you  see  your  own  reflection  in  them." 

"And  may  you  not  return  it  for  the  same 
reason  ?" 

"I  might,  if  the  light  in  yours  would  allow  me  to 
see  my  own  likeness." 

"Jean!    Jean!    What  about  the  light  in  yours?" 

"That's  only  the  reflection  of  your  own, 
madame." 

"And  that  again?" 

"Is  the  mirror  of  your  heart." 

"Then  must  not  your  image  be  engraved  on  it?" 
There  was  a  hidden  meaning  in  the  words.  ...  I 
felt  as  in  a  dream,  drawn  whither  I  knew  not. 

"I  would  bless  the  hand  that  impressed  the  image 
if  it  were  there."  I  emphasised  the  adverb. 

"You  would?"    She  emphasised  the  verb. 

"Could  you  doubt  it?"  I  cried;  heart  and  brain 
on  fire. 


220  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Even  though  the  hand  were  mine?" 

"Only  if  the  hand  were  yours,  madame."  And  so 
swearing,  I  raised  her  hand  to  my  lips,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  box. 

"Why — only — then?"  she  whispered,  as  the  cur 
tain  rose  on  Act  II. ;  and  then  Leon  de  Tesson  came 
back. 

"Because  you  would  have  had  it  so.  A  stranger's 
hand  might  have  left  a  wound,  and  I  would  not 
have  your  heart  bleed  on  my  account." 

"In — no — circumstances?"  The  words  were  the 
merest  fluttering  of  the  breath,  happily  caught 
by  my  intuitive  ear,  that  was  ever  dead  to  all  music, 
save  that  of  a  woman's  voice. 

"God  forbid,  madame." 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh,  as  of  relief. 

"Now,"  said  she,  in  the  second  entr'acte,  "tell  me 
why  you  came." 

"To  your  box,  madame?" 

"No,  to  Brussels." 

"Andre  du  Quesnoy  commissioned  me  to  make 
you  an  offer  for  the  Quesnoy,"  I  blurted  out,  hot 
with  humiliation  to  have  to  evade  the  truth. 

She  looked  amazed. 

"Does  Count  Andre  du  Quesnoy  wish  to  buy  it?" 

"No,  madame,  to  rent  it." 

"But  why  send  you  to  me?"  She  looked  puzzled. 

My  confusion  was  almost  too  painful  to  endure. 

"He  knew  your  whereabouts,  but  not  the  address 
of  the  marquis,"  I  impatiently  cried. 

"Oh,  I  see !  How  stupid  of  me !"  she  replied, 
misinterpreting  my  impatience.  "Well,  to  please 
you,  Jean,  I  will  talk  the  matter  over  with  the 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  221 

marquis  ...  if  he  comes  back."  Her  voice  hard 
ened  on  the  last  words,  then  softened  as  she  turned 
to  Leon  de  Tesson,  with  such  an  obvious  desire  to  be 
left  alone  with  him  that  I  sulkily  withdrew  to  the 
foyer. 

"Jean,  you  will  come  back  to  us,  won't  you?" 
she  pressed,  as  I  opened  the  door. 

"Yes,  if  you  would  like  to  see  me  again,"  I  snap 
ped  and  closed  the  door  on  her  reply.  I  had  closed 
it  as  well  on  my  boyish  outburst  of  jealousy,  I 
found. 

What  was  Claire  du  Quesnoy  to  me,  bon  Dieuf 
as  compared  with  Jeannette,  she  was  next  to 
nothing;  as  compared  with  maman,  she  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  non-existent.  A  dozen  times 
over  I  told  myself  all  this  and  more,  and  yet,  by 
some  spell  peculiarly  her  own,  she  had  won  a  place 
in  my  heart  which,  explain  it  as  you  will,  no  one  else 
could  have  filled.  This  charm  of  hers  seemed  to 
have  kindled  in  me  an  instinct  which,  struggle  as  I 
might  to  resist  its  prompting,  yet  impelled  me  to 
court  its  sway  in  her  near  neighbourhood.  I  strove 
against  it  all  through  Act  III.,  as  I  might  have 
attempted  to  fight  down  some  sudden  temptation; 
but,  with  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  it  had  overcome 
my  scruple  and  yet  assuaged  my  conscience.  "No, 
no!"  I  cried  as  I  rushed  out  of  the  foyer:  "to  her, 
even  maman  would  bid  me  go!" 

"Here  again,  you  see,  and  with  no  excuse  to  offer 
you,  except  that  I  feel  myself  at  home.  Do  I  bore 
you,  madame?"  I  asked. 

"Hope  deferred — but  perhaps  you  don't  know 
English?" 


222  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Yes,  I  do,  though.  I  picked  up  quite  a  lot  at 
the  White  Abbey,  where  I  was  educated.  My 
greatest  chum  there,  with  the  exception  of  Raoul 
de  Guernon,  was  a  young  Englishman  named 
Harold  Digby." 

I  had  answered  her  question  in  English. 

"How  it  trips  off  your  tongue,  to  be  sure !  You 
asked  me  if  you  bored  me.  Do  you  know  what  I 
ask  myself  when  I  Ihink  of  you?" 

"I  daren't  hazard  a  conjecture,  for  if  I  based  it 
on  your  long-suffering  you  might  accuse  me  of 
being  conceited,  or  think  I  was  fishing  for  a  compli 
ment  if  I  based  it  on  my  shortcomings." 

"Did  you  heart  that,  Leon?  Was  there  ever  such 
a  boy?" 

I  couldn't  describe  the  look  in  their  eyes  as  they 
met ;  but  it  endeared  her  to  me  as  much  as  it  exas 
perated  me  in  him. 

"Yes;  it  bears  out  what  we  have  been  saying, 
Claire." 

"Doesn't  it!  Jean,  listen.  Don't  you  ever  feel 
bored  to  death  in  the  country,  vegetating  with  the 
cabbages,  when  you  might  cultivate  your  intellect 
and  associate  with  your  peers?" 

"No,  by  heavens,  madame,  I  do  not!  Quite  the 
other  way  round :  I  should  bore  myself  to  extinction 
if  I  deserted  the  open  air  for  any  sedentary  occupa 
tion.  As  for  my  intellect,  it  will  be  sharpened 
sufficiently  by  my  daily  association  with  that  child 
of  culture,  Andre  du  Quesnoy,  my  foster-brother. 
....  I  belong  where  maman  lies.  .  ." 

Light  as  a  leaf,  her  hand  fell  on  mine. 

"You  must  remember  what  you  have  now  said, 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  223 

should  you  ever  meet  the  mother  who  let  you  go 
there.  Who  knows?  .  .  .  She  may  be  lamenting 
your  loss — or  her  voluntary  separation  from  you — 
as  much  as  you  are  mourning  the  death  of  the 
mother  who  adopted  you." 

"Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  judge  her,  madame, 
before  I  have  heard  her  story;  but  I  hope  to  God 
that  we  may  never  meet." 

It  was  not  her  lips  that  asked  me  why  .  .  . 
Besides,  they  trembled  too  much  to  speak. 

"Madame,"  I  replied :  "your  eyes  reproach  me. 
So  far  from  my  being  unfilial,  I  would  spare  her  the 
knowledge  that  I  would  not  change  matters  if  I 
could." 

"Then  I,  too,  will  trust  that  you  may  never, 
never  find  her.  It  would  break  her  heart  to  know 
what  she  has  lost."  And  she  turned  her  head  aside — 
were  there  tears  in  her  eyes,  as  in  her  voice  ? 

"I  say  Amen  to  that  with  all  my  heart,"  I  said, 
grimly. 

During  the  last  entr'acte,  she  turned  to  me,  all 
animation  again. 

"Talking  of  hearts,  how  many  have  you  broken?" 
she  teased. 

"None  that  can't  be  mended  by  a  better  man." 

"But  we  women  do  not  always  love  the  better 
man,  you  know." 

"Perhaps  they  sometimes  make  amends  by- 
marrying  him,"  I  blurted  out,  with  my  usual  frank 
ness;  and  then  looked  round  to  Leon  de  Tesson  to 
see  if  she  squirmed;  but  before  I  could  enjoy  the 
sight  of  his  discomfiture,  she  had  come  to  his 
rescue. 


224  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"I  am  sure  they  would — if  they  could,"  she  fired, 
and  his  eyes  thanked  her.  .  .  .  "Tell  me  now,  how 
many  times  has  your  heart  been  broken?"  she 
swiftly  asked  me. 

"In  a  way  that  cannot  be  mended?" 

Her  eyelids  half-closed,  she  gave  a  nod. 

"Once,  madame." 

"Always  the  same  loss?" 

"Always  the  same." 

"She  was  a  peasant  woman,  was  she  not?" 

"She  came  of  the  best  yeoman  stock;  her  family 
have  been  freeholders  for  generations  ;j  her  very 
name  proves  their  worth." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Champion.  Her  great  grandfather's  younger 
brother  migrated  to  England,  and  there  founded  a 
family,  which  has  risen  to  distinction  in  the  county 
of  Daleshire.  I  do  not  like  to  hear  maman  called 
a  paysanne.  Though  she  bore  no  title  by  right  of 
birth,  she  graced  the  one  which  was  hers  by  mar 
riage,  and  would  have  adorned  the  one  which  you 
accepted,  madame,  had  her  grandfather-in-law 
turned  Bonapartist." 

She  seized  upon  the  quaint  relationship  to  laugh 
off  her  annoyance  at  my  rising  heat. 

"Fortunately  for  my  husband,  her  grand  father- 
in-law's  younger  brother  was  not  of  the  same  mind 
in  politics  as  her  grandfather-in-law." 

Then  she  broke  into  a  ripple  of  laughter,  crying 
as  soon  as  she  could  find  breath  for  words : — 

"And  will  you  expect  your  wife  to  adopt  all  your 
ancestors?" She  broke  off  with  a  gasp. 

"Are  you  not  forgetting  the  singular  distinction 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  225 

that  I  have  no  parents,  to  say  nothing  of  ancestors  ?" 
I  retorted,  as  I  faced  her  with  flashing  eyes. 

"Confound  their  politics!"  she  burst  out:  "I 
would  not  have  hurt  your  feelings  for  the  whole 
world — Leon,  do  look!  .  .  ." 

And  again  I  caught  that  curious  interchange  of 
glances  which  annoyed  me  so.  It  was  as  though 
they  claimed  me  as  their  own. 

"It  was  all  my  fault,  madame :  I  richly  deserved 
the  reprimand,  tactless  ass  that  I  am,"  I  said,  in  an 
effort  to  conceal  my  resentment  at  their  proprietory 
smiles. 

"But  it  wasn't  a  reprimand,  it  was  a  slip  of  the 
tongue." 

"On  my  part  then,  for  I  should  have  said  'a 
reprimand.'  ' 

"How  quick  you  are !  You  ought  to  be  called  to 
the  bar." 

I  laughed.  "Not,  I  hope,  till  I  have  crossed  the 
bar,  madame." 

"You  may  live  to  change  your  mind." 

"Why  should  I  change  it  for  the  worse?  Am  I, 
then,  irretrievable?" 

"Not  so  irretrievable  but  some  woman  will  set 
you  right.  It  is  absurd,  on  the  face  of  it,  that  you 
should  remain  a  farmer.  I  will  never  rest  until  you 
make  up  your  mind  to  read  for  the  bar." 

"The  arc  is  now  a  perfect  round,  madame;  the 
puzzle  is  to  find  its  centre." 

"Do  you  mean,  to  explain  the  interest  I  take  in 
your  future?  Am  I  not  old  enough  to  be  your 
mother,  and  you  young  enough  to  be  advised?" 

"I  shall  never  be  too  old  to  need  your  advice, 


226  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

though  you  will  always  remain  too  young  to  be  my 
mother,  you  know." 

"Come,  what  is  your  objection  to  my  plan?"  she 
smiled. 

"It  would  tear  me  up  by  the  roots  only  to  trans 
plant  me  in  less  congenial  soil  .  .  .  Or  so  I 
fear." 

"Thank  you  for  that  saving  clause.  Now,  to  take 
the  first  objection:  why  should  you  be  torn  up  by 
the  roots?  Is  there  not  a  university  at  Caen,  and 
is  that  so  far  a  cry  from  your  native  city? — by  the 
bye,  are  you  a  bachelier?" 

"Thanks  to  Andre,  I  am." 

"He  was  kind  to  you  as  a  boy?" 

"Stern,  but  never  unkind." 

"And  now?" 

"He's  beginning  to  like  me,  I  hope,  as  much  as 
I  admire  him?" 

"You  speak  enviously.  What  do  you  most  covet 
in  him?" 

"His  self-control,  I  think." 

"Well,  it  certainly  couldn't  be  his  self-possession. 
But — revonons  a  nos  moutons  .  .  ." 

"Nothing  would  please  me  better,"  I  interrupted, 
laughing. 

"That  was  certainly  an  unhappy  quotation  of 
mine.  The  last  thing  I  wish  you  to  do  is  to  return 
to  your  sheep.  To  continue : — Why  shouldn't  you 
be  transplanted  in  practically  the  same  soil  by 
doing  your  stage  at  Littremont,  after  you  have 
taken  your  degree  at  Caen?" 

"Well,  don't  you  see,  I  have  enough  to  live  on, 
and  therefore  the  means  of  pleasing  myself.  .  .  ." 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  227 

"Only  five  thousand  francs  a  year,"  she  quickly 
interrupted. 

"How  did  you  know  that,  madame?"  I  asked  in 
amazement. 

"How  foolish  of  me  to  betray  myself  like  that  .  .  . 
I,  that  would  have  people  believe  that  I  never 
listen  to  gossip,"  she  exclaimed,  the  colour  bright 
in  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  I  see !  My  fault  again — I  never  could  keep 
my  own  secrets,  you  must  know." 

"I  would  trust  you  with  mine  if  I  dared  to  trust 
myself,"  she  murmured,  and  those  were  her  last 
words,  until  she  said  good-night. 

"A  demain,  riest-ce  pas?"  she  said  as  I  closed 
the  door  of  her  brougham. 

"A  bientot,  madame." 

"You  are  a  good  sleeper,  then?" 

"I  shall  unclasp  my  fists  to-night." 

"And  bury  the  hatchet  as  well?" 

"I  flung  that  away  when  I  entered  your  box.  I 
must  leave  it  to  Andre  to  bury  it  when  he  finds  it." 

It  was  only  after  she  had  driven  away  that  I 
remembered  poor  little  Margot  Voissaert,  and  my 
determination  to  help  her  lover  if  I  could. 

To  think  of  her,  was  to  compare  her  lot  with  that 
of  Goethe's  immortal  heroine,  to  find  on  reflection 
how  widely  it  diverged.  "I  loved  him  so  ...  I 
had  no  mother  .  .  .  and  that  was  my  undoing!" 
Gretchen  had  cried.  Might  not  Margot  Voissaert 
exclaim  one  day,  with  even  greater  pathos: 
"Though  I  loved  him  not,  I  had  a  mother,  and  she 
was  my  undoing?" 

"No,"  I  cried,  "she  shall  have  the  man  she  loves, 


228  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

before  her  mother  can  egg  her  on  to  her  ruin." 
And  I  lay  down  and  counted  the  hours  as  they 
ticked  themselves  out  on  my  watch  under  the 
pillow.  .  .  . 


Up  at  six,  I  tramped  to  Waterloo  and  back  on 
purpose  to  wear  out  my  impatience  to  set  to  work 
in  Margot's  interests,  and  on  the  stroke  of  eight 
at  night,  I  rang  the  bell  at  the  Chateau  de  la  See. 

The  ring  was  answered  by  the  footman  in  the 
plum-coloured  livery.  Impassive  as  ever,  he  took 
my  hat  and  stick,  and  then  gave  me  a  helping  hand 
with  my  fur  coat. 

"Your  name  is  Charles  Lorin  isn't  it?"  I  asked. 

"Oui,  monsieur." 

"And  your  evening  out,  Saturday  next?" 

"Oui,  monsieur." 

"You  will  meet  Mademoiselle  Margot  Voissaert 
at  the  top  of  the  Montagne  de  la  Cour  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  marry  her  within  a  month.  If  you 
don't  I  shall." 

His  eyeballs  shot  out  of  their  sockets,  as  though 
I  had  touched  a  spring  in  a  mechanical  doll,  and  his 
mouth  fell  open  to  eject  the  amazement  which 
filled  him. 

"Sacr-r —  "  he  began,  trilling  the  "r"  like  a  baby's 
rattle ;  then,  his  sense  of  decorum  reasserting  itself, 
he  quickly  hung  up  my  coat,  and,  without  another 
word,  stepped  briskly  upstairs  in  front  of  me  and 
flung  open  the  drawing-room  door. 

"Monsieur  le  comte  Jean  Bienvenu  du  Bac  de 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  229 

1'Epine!"  he  announced,  as  with  a  flourish  of 
trumpets,  and  then  withdrew.  Laughter  shook 
me. 

The  Marquise  du  Quesnoy  started  to  her  feet, 
her  eyes  asking  a  dozen  questions  before  she  could 
find  a  single  word  to  express  her  astonishment. 

"Neither  name  nor  title  was  of  my  invention, 
madame,"  I  smilingly  reassured  her  as  we  shook 
hands.  "I  bear  so  many  names  in  my  own  country, 
I  can  well  afford  to  be  saddled  with  a  strange  one 
in  a  foreign  land." 

"What  do  they  call  you  at  home?" 

"Most  people  call  me  Jean  of  the  Bellows." 

"Why  of  the  Bellows?"  She  puckered  her  brows, 
as  she  sat  down  at  the  hearth. 

"They  say  I  fan  a  flame,  as  a  woman  flirts  a  fan," 
I  replied,  sitting  down  opposite  to  her. 

She  gazed  thoughtfully  into  the  glowing  fire. 
We  were  alone  in  the  vast  room. 

"I  wouldn't  overrate  the  nickname,  Jean,"  she 
murmured,  "nor  overdo  the  blowing  ...  it  wastes 
so  much  fuel  ...  so  many,  many  of  your  fires 
at  home  are  of  shipwreck  wood,  as  it  is." 

It  was  long  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  say  a 
word. 

There  are  some  thoughts  that  are  no  sooner 
uttered  than  they  cry  out  for  the  mates  they  needed. 
There  are  others  so  penetrating,  they  drive  down  to 
the  inmost  recesses  of  the  mind  to  renew  or  enrich 
the  understanding.  These  are  the  fertilising  sayings 
which,  where  the  mind  is  thirsting  to  receive  them, 
regenerate  the  character  or  mark  an  epoch  in  our 
lives.  .  .  .  My  boyhood  ended  when  I  promised 


230  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

myself  that  I  would  keep  her  saying  in  my  heart 
as  long  as  I  lived. 

"I  will  be  a  man  from  this  moment,"  I  replied  at 
last. 

"Warm  our  hearts,  and  not — not  our  senses.  .  .  . 
Be  a  friend  to  many,  the  lover  of  but  one.  .  .  .  Let 
your  wooing  continue  after  the  courtship  is  ended 
and  her  married  life  begun.  .  .  .  And,  Jean,  never 
use  the  bellows  except  to  keep  your  own  heart 
warm;  believe  me,  she  will  need  no  other  incen 
tive  to  be  your  constant  companion  at  the  hearth. 
» 

She  spoke  in  dreamy,  fireside  tones,  with  thought 
ful  pauses  between  the  sentences,  to  let  each  word 
sink  deep  into  my  mind  and  heart;  but  she  had 
overreached  the  point  where  youthful  thoughts 
and  feelings  unite,  and  scattered  her  seed  on  that 
unfruitful  soil  in  the  heart  and  mind,  which  can 
only  be  cultivated  by  experience. 

I  couldn't  help  laughing,  as  I  exclaimed : — 

"I  promised  to  be  a  man,  remember,  not  a  mar 
ried  man.  Acres  and  acres  of  untilled  soil  lie  be 
tween  my  present  thoughts  and  those  which  you 
have  gleaned  as  ..."  I  paused  in  search  of  the 
right  word. 

"As  an  aftermath?"  she  suggested. 

"Yes,  if  the  second  crop  was  one  of  happiness, 
I  will  say  those  which  you  have  gleaned  as  an  after 
math  of  the  realisation  of  your  hopes.  As  for  me, 
madame,  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  marry." 

"Then  you  will  make  one  girl  I  know  very  un 
happy." 

"I  too  must  know  her  then,"  I  said  in  surprise. 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  231 

"If  you  know  her  worth,  you  would  marry  no  one 
else." 

"If  she  knew  my  mind,  she  would  marry  any  one 
but  me,"  I  retorted  with  warmth. 

"If  you  knew  her  heart,  you  would  quickly 
change  your  mind." 

"If  I  changed  my  mind,  I  might  quickly  break 
her  heart."  And  my  thoughts  flew  to  Jeannette. 

"You  would  never  do  that,  because  your  own 
would  have  changed  with  your  mind." 

"You  excite  my  curiosity,  madame;  it  would  be 
only  fair  to  satisfy  it.  Who  is  she?" 

"You  will  see  her  on  your  return.  May  your 
absence  have  made  your  eyes  grow  clearer,  your 
heart  wiser,  and  your  conscience  more  watchful." 

So  saying,  she  looked  straight  into  my  face.  I 
grew  red  to  the  tip  of  my  ears ;  my  eyeballs  smarted 
so  that  I  could  scarcely  see;  I  longed  to  bury  my 
head  in  my  hands.  It  had  come  at  last,  that  feeling 
of  shame  and  disloyalty,  with  such  a  rush  of 
memories  to  drive  it  home,  that  I  would  have 
washed  out  the  stain  they  left  behind  them  with  my 
life's  blood. 

She  rose  and  stood  behind  me. 

"Jean,"  she  whispered,  "close  your  eyes  upon  the 
past — like  this."  And  her  cool  hands  were  lightly 
pressed  on  my  eyelids.  "Is  the  tingling  gone?" 
she  murmured,  her  lips  close  to  my  ear.  "The 
future  awaits  your  coming  with  a  face  as  fair  and 
a  heart  a  million  times  truer.  .  .  .  Would  you  like 
to  take  a  peep  into  the  future  as  I  would  have  it 
be? — oh,  no,  Bienvenu,  you  mustn't  welcome  it 
with  tears !  Dear  boy,  prepare  your  brightest  smile 


232  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

to  match  its  own — now  close  your  eyes  tight  until 
I  come  back." 

And  I  was  glad  enough  to  keep  them  closed, 
trying  to  shut  out  the  past.  She  must  have  heard 
whispers  about  Jeannette  and  myself.  What 
would  she  think  of  Jeannette's  disappearance? 
I  longed  to  tell  her;  then  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my 
face  at  the  mere  thought.  For  did  we  not  fear 
that  Jeannette  was  with  ...  or  on  her  way  to  ... 
the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy  ?  No,  to  mention  Jeannette 
would  indeed  be  a  faux  pas.  .  .  . 

I  could  hear  the  marquise  go  to  a  table  and  turn 
over  the  leaves  of  a  book.  Then  back  she  glided 
to  stand  once  more  behind  me. 

"Open  your  eyes  and  see  what  Fate  will  send 
you,"  she  laughingly  commanded;  and  as  I  unclosed 
them  she  held  up  the  photograph  of  a  young  girl, 
with  a  face  full  of  charm,  and  full  of  determination. 
A  strong,  beautiful  face  it  was.  I  seemed  to  see  it 
for  the  first  time,  as  though  a  veil  had  fallen  from 
before  my  eyes,  and  yet  I  cried : — 

"Jacqueline  Lolif!" 

"It  arrived  this  morning,"  said  the  marquise, 
"to  take  the  place  of  her  irresistible  self.  I  had 
invited  her  to  come  and  stay  with  me.  We  are 
related  through  her  father,  who,  like  myself,  was  a 
Montviron.  Did  you  know  this  ?" 

"No,  it  is  news  to  me.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  her 
father  was  a  Montviron,  but  without  ever  realising 
that  he  might  be  related  to  you,  seeing  that  your 
maiden  name  was  identical.  .  .  .  But  tell  me, 
madame,  why  didn't  he  marry  Jacqueline's  mother? 
It's  awfully  bad  luck  on  the  girl."  And  then  my 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  233 

face  burned  again ;  for,  as  usual,  I  had  put  my  foot 
in  it.  Was  I  not  speaking  to  a  near  relative  of  the 
man  I  was  censuring?  Would  she  resent  it?  But 
no,  she  smiled  at  me. 

"Don't  blame  yourself  for  speaking  out,  Jean," 
she  said.  "You  are  right,  my  cousin  did  Jacqueline's 
mother  a  cruel  injustice  in  not  marrying  her.  But 
he  held  strange  views.  He  affirmed  that  love  was 
a  sacrament,  and  marriage — in  France — a  mockery. 
He  was  faithful  to  Marie  Lolif  to  the  end.  He  was 
a  man  who  would  sacrifice  everything  to  those  he 
loved — everything  but  a  theory." 

"Even  his  theoretical  daughter,  apparently!" 
I  could  not  resist  exclaiming.  I  felt  myself  suddenly 
all  on  fire  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  Jacqueline's 
cause;  more  especially  as  her  steady  eyes  seemed 
to  be  watching  me  from  the  photograph  which  I 
now  held  in  my  hand. 

The  marquise's  lips  broke  into  a  smile — one  of 
pleasure.  I  thought. 

"He  never  disowned  his  daughter,  Jean,"  she 
remonstrated  gently.  And  then,  quite  suddenly, 
the  beautiful  curved  lips  straightened  into  a  line  of 
pain  as  she  added  in  quick,  low  tones,  full  of 
bitterness.  "No,  it  takes  a  Quesnoy  to  wreck  a 
woman's  life  —  and  drive  her  to  a  better  man 
— reckless  of  the  inevitable — callous  to  the 
woman's—  The  last  word  was  a  sigh. 

I  understood:  in  spite  of  all,  she  loved  her 
husband  still. 

Then  followed  a  short  silence,  and  then  she 
said : — 

"So  long  as  my  cousin  lived,  mother  and  child 


234  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

bore  his  name.  But  Jacqueline  is  a  very  determined 
character.  She  bitterly  resented  her  father's  prin 
ciples — old  Anne  encouraged  her  too — and  refused 
to  be  called  by  his  name  after  his  death;  or  allow 
her  mother  to  bear  the  name.  I  have  reasoned  with 
her  over  and  over  again,  only  to  meet  always  with 
the  same  reply :  'Father's  principles  died  with  him. 
We  have  no  right  to  his  name — I  am  a  Lolif  like 
my  mother.'  ' 

"And  I  should  have  said  the  same,"  I  remarked. 
And  then  another  silence  fell,  which  I  broke  by  ex 
claiming,  "I  had  nearly  forgotten!  Talking  of 
marriages,  madame,  I  want  you  to  make  a  match 
between  Charles  Lorin  and  Margot  Voissaert. 
This  is  their  story."  And  I  plunged  into  it  before 
the  marquise  could  recover  from  her  gasp  of  sur 
prise. 

She  listened  to  my  pleading  with  as  much  amuse 
ment  as  sympathy. 

"I  will  talk  it  over  with  Margot  the  next  time  I 
see  her,"  she  promised  at  the  end.  "Ah,  here  is 
Monsieur  de  Tesson." 

A  moment  later  dinner  was  announced. 

The  Vicomte  de  Tesson  had  shaken  hands  with  a 
warmth  that  unpleasantly  recalled  the  expression  of 
sickly  affection  with  which  he  had  greeted  me  the 
day  before;  but  finding  me  as  cold  to  the  secret 
offer  of  friendship  as  determined  to  keep  him  in  the 
background,  he  quickly  changed  his  tactics,  and 
sought  to  win  me  over  by  his  ready  wit,  his  engross 
ing  table  talk,  and  his  unobtrusive  courtesy  as  a 
host.  It  would  have  been  ungracious  if  I  had  long 
and  wilfully  resisted  these  insidious  attempts  to  out- 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  235 

flank  my  unreasoning  dislike ;  I  accordingly  decided 
betimes  to  meet  him  at  least  half-way,  and  with  a 
heartiness  that  would  at  once  dispel  the  cloud  I  had 
seen  gathering  in  the  eyes  of  my  hostess.  This  sud 
den  volte-face  on  my  part  cleared  the  thoughtful 
brow,  and  soon  she  was  joining  in  the  conversation 
with  such  a  wealth  of  joyous  peace  underlying  her 
every  look  and  word,  that  I  could  not  help  exclaim 
ing  as  we  returned  to  the  salon : — 

"I  have  never  felt  so  happy  since  I  lost  maman. 
Quite  a  family  party,  wasn't  it,  madame?" 

A  tactless  compliment,  I  own,  had  I  paused  to 
consider  the  relations  said  to  exist  between  them; 
an  outrageous  remark  had  I  meant  to  convey  a  hint 
of  my  belief  in  their  liaison;  but  speaking,  as  I  had 
spoken,  out  of  the  fullness  of  my  heart,  with  a  mind 
worlds  away  from  dealing  such  a  backhanded  stroke 
of  irony,  I  must  say  I  bitterly  resented  the  flush  that 
rose  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
sudden  pallor  that  invaded  his  very  lips.  I  was 
naturally  the  more  angry  at  these  demonstrations  of 
resentment  on  their  part,  because  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  set  myself  right;  and  feeling  injured  at 
their  displeasure,  without  being  able  to  tell  them 
why,  I  sat  brooding  in  a  sulky  silence  for  the  rest  of 
the  evening,  deaf  to  the  overtures  of  reconciliation 
which  they  each  made  in  turn,  as  pardoning,  out  of 
consideration  for  my  inexperience,  an  offence  which 
I  hadn't  it  in  me  to  commit.  It  was  only  when  I  at 
last  tore  myself  to  my  feet  to  say  good-bye  and 
noted  how  tired  and  how  sad  she  looked,  that  my 
heart,  relenting,  went  out  to  her  again. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  felt  as  I  did  feel,  madame," 


236  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

I  said,  as  we  clasped  hands,  "even  though  you  re 
sented  it  as  an  impertinence." 

She  looked  at  me,  a  protecting  love  deepening 
her  eye. 

"And  I,"  she  said,  "overjoyed  that,  for  one  fleet 
ing  moment,  you  felt  you  belonged.  .  .  .  Perhaps, 
Jean,  I  resented  its  passing  more  than  I  had  resent 
ed  its  dawn." 

"The  day  has  yet  to  break  when  I  shall  bid  it 
pass.  Good-bye,  madame,  and  au  revoir." 

"Au  revoir,  dear  Jean.  You  will  remember,  will 
you  not,  that  I  should  like  you  to  read  for  the  bar  ? 
Please,  do  not  allow  your  abilities  to  grow  rusty." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  worry  awaiting  me  at 
home,"  I  stammered,  "but  when  that  is  over  I  will 
think  your  idea  out,  madame.  Thank  you  many 
times  for  all  your  goodness  to  me." 

"It  rests  with  you  Jean,  to  have  it  repeated 
ad  lib,"  she  answered.  "We  must  no  longer  be  to 
each  other  as  ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  hail 
each  other  in  passing." 

Was  it  not  strange,  Andre,  that  she  should  have 
said  "ships  that  pass  in  the  night?"  for  have  we  not 
been  plunged  into  night  since  Jeannette's  disappear 
ance?  Not  that  I  love  her  any  longer.  .  .  .  No, 
my  feelings  have  completely  changed :  she  stands  for 
my  conscience  now.  Her  name  is  stamped  for  ever 
on  my  heart,  but  round  it,  alas!  is  a  circle  red  as 
blood,  that  tingles  to  every  memory  that  I  would 
forfeit  the  last  year  of  my  life  to  forget. 

I  replied  to  the  marquise's  last  words  eagerly. 

"Indeed,  madame,"  I  said,  "it  would  be  pleasant 
to  feel  that  I  might  come  to  you  if  I  needed  your 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  237 

counsel,  even  though  I  decided  that  the  litigious 
Normans  should  never  take  counsel's  opinion  from 
me." 


Half  an  hour  later  I  had  reached  my  hotel  to  fetch 
my  baggage.  The  hall  porter  handed  me  a  telegram 
which  had  arrived  earlier  in  the  evening.  I  tore  it 
open,  and  read  this  peremptory  message : 

"Stay  where  you  are  until  I  summon  you  back. 
Andre." 

That  it  was  peremptory  you  must  admit,  Andre ! 
But  my  thought  was  one  of  joy:  "I  shall  see  her 
again."  And  with  brightening  face  I  turned  to  the 
porter. 

"Carry  my  things  upstairs,  Marcel,"  I  said,  "I 
am  going  to  stay." 

The  smile  on  my  face  was  infectious,  evidently; 
he  was  all  beams  as  he  shouldered  his  burden  and 
disappeared  round  the  bend  in  the  staircase. 

My  second  thought  was  a  question.  .  .  .  Why 
hadn't  Andre  gone  to  Russia?  .  .  .  He  must  have 
received  my  telegram.  Why  did  he  bid  me  stay 
where  I  was?  .  .  .  Had  news  come  of  Jeannette? 
Mystified,  I  took  out  that  part  of  this  narrative 
which  I  had  kept,  and  began  to  read.  One  sentence 
sent  me  off  into  a  muse :  "The  one  steadfast  passion 
of  my  life  has  been  my  love  for  maman,  living  and 
dead.".  .  .  Yes;  there  you  have  me  in  a  nutshell, 
as  it  were,  Andre.  The  words  had  come  unsought, 


238  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

the  cry  would  out,  the  filial  instinct  simply  had  to 
come  first.  .  .  .  The  next  moment,  my  thoughts 
went  out  to  Claire,  Marquise  du  Quesnoy.  How 
dear  she  was  to  me  already !  What  an  ideal  mother 
she  too  would  have  been  had  she  borne  a  son !  .  .  . 
Was  my  deepening  affection  for  her  but  another 
expression  of  that  filial  instinct,  which  would  not 
be  denied,  reaching  out  to  the  maternal  instinct  in 
herself?  .  .  . 

Still  wondering,  I  closed  the  MS.,  undressed, 
and  slipped  into  bed.  When  at  length  I  dropped  to 
sleep,  it  was  to  dream  that  the  marquise  came  to 
my  bedside  with  maman,  and  implored  her  to 
persuade  me  to  answer  the  question  as  her  own 
heart  would  have  me  answer  it.  Her  appeal  was 
answered.  "Jean,"  said  my  maman's  voice,  mellow 
and  deep,  "thou  shalt  not  deny  thy  instinct  for  the 
sake  of  me.  Have  I  not  waited  and  watched  for 
this  day  to  come?"  ...  I  tore  my  eyes  open,  to  see 
a  vision  of  her  earnest  face  all  aglow  in  a  light 
from  some  world  of  peace;  it  faded  away  slowly 
in  the  darkling  room  and  became  one  with  the  dark 
ness  of  this  world  of  death.  .  .  . 

With  a  heart  in  conflict  with  itself,  I  tossed  in  bed 
until  the  dawn  began  to  lighten  the  room,  when  I 
again  fell  asleep  out  of  sheer  weariness  and  im 
patience.  .  .  . 


"Monsieur!  monsieur,  wake  up!     The  Marquise 
du  Quesnoy  awaits  monsieur  in  the  salon!" 
What  an  awakening!  .  .  . 
I  was  out  of  bed  before  the  man  had  left  the 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  239 

room.  And  it  was  not  many  minutes  later  that 
found  me  entering  the  salon  with  beating  heart. 

"I  came  on  a  sudden,  impelling  feeling  that  you 
were  still  in  Brussels,"  said  the  marquise,  as  I  raised 
her  hands  to  my  lips.  "But  I  must  return  to  Nor 
mandy  at  once,  Jean." 

"You  have  received  no  bad  news,  I  hope,  ma- 
dame?" 

"I  have  received  a  telegram  from  Jacqueline  Lolif , 
which  causes  me  much  anxiety.  The  poor  child  is 
in  trouble;  she  has  turned  to  me  for  help — as  her 
father  would  have  willed  she  should." 

And  the  marquise  put  a  telegram  into  my  hand. 
It  read  as  follows  :— 

"Come  to  me  if  possible,  needing  help  sorely. 
Jacqueline." 

"This  is  very  serious,  madame,"  I  cried,  "what 
can  it  mean?  If  her  mother  were  ill,  or  if  she 
were  dead,  would  she  not  have  said  so?  Is  it  per 
haps  that —  '  I  broke  off,  for  I  had  been  on  the 
point  of  mentioning  Jeannette's  name.  Instead,  I 
took  out  the  telegram  I  had  received. 

The  marquise  glanced  from  it  to  me. 

"You  too  have  received  one?"  she  asked. 

"From  Jacqueline  Lolif,  no,  madame.  It  is  from 
my  brother  Andre.  He  bids  me  stay  here  until  he 
summons  me." 

"Ah !"  and  there  was  disappointment  in  the  tone. 
"I  had  hoped  that  you  might  have  accompanied 
me,"  she  added. 


240  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"That  hope  shall  be  fulfilled,  madame,"  I  cried, 
recklessly. 

"And  your  brother  ?"  .  .  . 

"I  will  explain  all  to  him.  Besides,  I  want  an 
explanation  myself  of  this  telegram." 

A  smile  trembled  on  her  lips. 

"Headstrong,  headlong — a  true  Montviron,"  she 
breathed,  then  blushed  scarlet.  .  .  . 

I  gasped  out  from  sheer  amazement. 


Two  hours  later  we  were  on  our  way  to  Paris, 
where  we  stayed  overnight;  and  on  the  following 
afternooon,  as  the  sun  was  setting,  we  drew  near 
our  destination. 

What  a  sudden  change  of  feeling  Jeannette's 
disappearance  had  worked  in  me!  ...  I  felt  a 
stranger  to  myself  every  time  I  tried  to  analyze  the 
revulsion.  The  task,  with  the  two  conflicting 
telegrams  occupying  my  mind,  proved  far  beyond 
my  powers.  The  effects  of  the  transformation  were 
plain  enough  to  see ;  the  causes  baffled  me  complete 
ly,  as  did  the  one  upon  which  Jacqueline  had  acted. 
...  I  had  gone  away  a  boy,  and  come  back  a 
man:  left  with  the  remembered  kisses  sweet  to  my 
lips,  and  returned  with  the  memory  of  them  bitter  as 
gall ;  I  had  felt  myself  a  knight-errant  when  I  started 
from  home,  and  now  that  I  was  going  back  I 
dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  the  coming  meeting  with 
Jacqueline.  In  a  word,  I  felt  ashamed  to  look  her 
in  the  face.  .  .  .  Had  I  tired  of  Jeannette  before 
she  fled,  or  had  her  flight  been  a  too  swift  revelation 


THE  OPENING  DOOR  241 

of  her  incurable  flightiness  ?  Was  I  sore  at  her  cal 
lous  desertion  of  me,  or  was  I  secretly  glad  to  be 
freed  from  a  tie  that  had  been  entirely  woven  out 
of  deceit  and  disloyalty?  ....  How  to  explain  the 
revulsion  which  was  mine  to  the  core  of  me,  I  know 
not ;  but  to  have  leaped  to  manhood  over  my  youth 
ful  self-conceit,  only  to  find  myself  in  the  grip  of 
this  feeling  of  treachery,  was  to  regard  Jeannette's 
disappearance  as  a  mystery,  which  it  must  be  my 
duty  to  unravel  in  order  to  restore  her  to  her  hus 
band,  and  so  regain  my  own  peace  of  mind.  Of  one 
thing  I  felt  certain :  she  had  not  run  away  with  my 
companion's  husband. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Jean?"  asked  the 
marquise. 

I  hesitated;  but  something  in  her  eyes  compelled 
me,  and  I  unburdened  my  mind  of  its  complete 
reflection. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  replied :  "much  of  what  you 
now  tell  me  I  already  knew.  I  never  shared  the 
general  infatuation  for  your  first  love.  More  I 
must  not  say,  even  to  you.  Take  my  advice — forget 
the  past  now  that  you  regret  its  errors." 

"But  what  about  its  consequences? — How  shall  I 
face  them?" 

"We  are  going  to  face  them  together,  Jean,"  she 
replied.  "And  to  help  poor  Jacqueline  Lolif  to  face 
her  trouble  whatever  it  may  be,"  she  added. 

As  to  Jeannette's  tragic  disappearance,  she  made 
no  comment  whatever,  beyond  the  remark  that 
Charles  Lorin  had  already  told  her  this  news. 


PART  IV 
THE  HOMECOMING  OF  THE  FRIVOLE 

(Told  by  Jean  of  the  Bellows) 


243 


CHAPTER  I 

AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE 

JACQUELINE  was  on  the  platform  to  meet  us. 
When  she  caught  sight  of  me,  whom  she  had  not  ex 
pected,  she  could  not  conceal  her  feelings  any  more 
than  I  could  myself.  Simultaneously,  our  eyes  met 
with  a  smile  of  joyful  welcome.  Then  back  she  ran 
to  our  compartment,  and  opened  the  door. 

"Oh,  chere  madame,"  she  cried :  "how  kind  of 
you  to  have  come !  .  .  .  And  Monsieur  Jean,  can  it 
be  you?  .  .  .  This  is  indeed  a  surprise!"  .  .  . 

Slowly  the  flush  faded  away :  it  then  struck  me 
how  ill  she  looked;  her  eyes,  too,  seemed  to  have 
lost  their  expression  of  fearless  candour.  .  .  . 

Two  footmen  stepped  forward  and  took  pos 
session  of  our  hand  baggage  and  our  luggage  tickets. 
Their  features  showed  them  to  be  Russians. 
Madame  du  Quesnoy  betrayed  considerable  uneasi 
ness  at  sight  of  them. 

"The  marquis  is  surely  not  coming  home  already, 
Jacqueline?"  she  asked  nervously. 

"Oh,  yes,  madame,"  replied  Jacqueline :  "he  re 
turned  quite  unexpectedly  from  Russia  this  morn 
ing." 

"A  short  visit  for  so  long  a  journey,"  murmured 

245 


246  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

the  marquise,  as  she  followed  the  footmen  down 
the  platform :  "Ah,  well,  I  suppose  the  butler  has 
recalled  the  domestics;  they  never  can  tell  for  two 

days  together,  poor  things "  She  broke  off, 

with  an  expressive  shrug. 

At  the  gate,  we  handed  in  our  tickets,  then  walked 
out  into  the  station  square,  to  where  a  brougham 
and  pair  awaited  our  arrival.  A  light  luggage 
cart  near  by  was  being  loaded  up  by  the  footmen  as 
we  came  along. 

Madame  du  Quesnoy  turned  to  Jacqueline : 
"Jump  in,  dear  child,"  said  she :  "you  must  come 
home  with  me,  and  stay  until  all  trace  of  worry  is 
gone.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  unhappy!"  .  .  . 
Then  to  me :  "And  you,  Jean,  will  you  accompany 
us  to  the  chateau  for  a  cup  of  tea?" 

Though  her  voice  sounded  forced  and  unnatural, 
I  accepted  the  invitation  with  some  eagerness,  out 
of  curiosity  to  meet  her  husband  in  his  own  house. 
(Forgive  my  apparent  disloyalty,  Andre;  the  temp 
tation  was  irresistible. ) 

"Perhaps,  madame,"  I  suggested,  "I  had  better 
send  my  traps  on  to  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm." 

"Of  course.  .  .  .  How  stupid  of  me!  I  will  send 
for  your  things  later,  Jacqueline." 

"What  luck,"  I  cried:  "There  goes  Louis  Ba- 
taille,  the  fisherman.  He  would  make  nothing  of 
my  load.  Excuse  me,  madame,  for  keeping  you 
waiting:  I  will  be  back  in  a  moment."  And, 
snatching  my  portmanteau  from  the  luggage  cart,  I 
hurried  after  Bataille — why  wait  for  another  hint 
that  one  is  in  the  way?  .  .  . 

"I  say,  Louis,"  I  called  after  him:    "would  you 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      247 

mind  carrying  my  bag  home,  and  telling  Monsieur 
Andre  that  I  shall  be  following  it  before  bedtime?" 

Louis  Bataille  swung  around. 

"Oh,  la,  la!"  he  ejaculated  :  "here  comes  Number 
Two  .  .  .  Ca  boulotte,  Jean  Bienvenu?  There  are 
those  that  think  it  was  a  pity  that  you  went  away." 

"I'm  in  a  mighty  hurry,  Bataille — tell  me,  has 
Madame  Jacques  returned  to  Hawthorn  Ferry 
Farm?" 

"Not  unless  you  have  brought  her  back  in  your 
portmanteau — here,  hand  it  over.  As  far  to  seek 
above  ground  as  ever  she  was  before  you  went 
away.  And  her  good  man — aie  done!  he  is,  if  any 
thing,  more  rampageous  than  ever  I  knew  him  to 
be!  I  wouldn't  say  so  much  to  any  one  else,  bien 
entendu.  Would  you  believe  it,  impossibility  to 
tear  him  away  from  the  mounted  gendarmes!  All 
day  long,  both  yesterday  and  again  to-day,  he's 
been  conducting  the  search  over  the  head  of  the 
marechal  des  logis,  who  can't  shake  him  off.  One 
says,  he  was  nearly  the  death  of  one  of  them — 
you  know,  the  fellow  with  the  face  of  a  ferret  and 
the  eyes  of  a  stoat." 

"How  was  that?" 

"Dame!  Monsieur  Jacques  led  him  a  bit  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  quicksands,  beyond  the  Grouin 
du  Sud,  swearing  that  his  dog,  sacre  nom  d'un 
chien!  had  tracked  his  wife  to  that  very  spot,  on 
Friday  morning  last." 

"Is  that  a  fact?" 

"Oh!  dame!  oui!  and  suicide  is  our  verdict, 
since  Gerard  du  Quesnoy's  return  this  morning  to 
search  for  her.  He  was  Number  One." 


248  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Do  you  really  think  she  committed  suicide?"  I 
incredulously  asked. 

"Who  am  I  to  think  differently  of  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy?  I'm  always  ready  to  follow  where  he 
leads — ca  oui,  parbleu!" 

"What  does  your  friend  Louis-Philippe  Jugan 
think  about  it?  that's  the  question." 

"Dame!  Louis-Philippe  is  not  the  man  to  think 
aloud!  But  if  Monsieur  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  says 
that  his  wife  took  her  own  life,  it  is  neither  Louis 
Bataille  nor  Louis-Philippe  Jugan  who  would  gain 
say  him." 

"I  will  never  believe  she  did !"  I  cried. 

He  spat  leisurely  into  a  puddle,  "Dame!"  he  re 
plied  imperturbably,  "other  folk  may  think  other 
wise,  and  welcome.  Some  said  she  had  run  away 
with  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy.  When  he  got  back 
at  daybreak  this  morning,  they  saddled  her  upon  you, 
mon  gars.  When  they  catch  sight  of  you,  they'll 
quickly  change  their  tune  and,  maybe,  go  into  deep 
black,  like  Jacques  du  Quesnoy." 

"What!  in  the  mourning  already?" 

"Deja,  dis-tu,  que  diable?  Why,  she  has  been 
sunk  in  the  quicksands  for  a  whole  week,  and  that's 
as  good  as  dead  and  buried,  bar  the  prayers  and  the 
music,  quoi?  I  won't  say  bar  the  passing-bell,  for 
I  myself  have  heard  the  leper's  bell  tolling,  from 
away  out  there  by  the  Pig's  Snout  quicksands." 

"When  was  that,  Louis?" 

"It  might  be  a  night  or  two  ago,  and  it  might  be 
longer,  but  it  was  a  shock  to  my  woman  who  heard 
it  likewise.  'Ah,  fichu  sort!'  cried  she.  And  she 
wanted  to  get  me  up  in  the  cold,  and  light  the  lamp ! 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      249 

'Light  it  yourself,'  said  I,  'you're  on  the  border 
side  of  the  bed,  aren't  you?'  .  .  .  'It's  our  money 
I  am  thinking  of,'  she  replied :  'What  if  the  Leper 
of  the  Cross  was  to  steal  it,  to  pay  for  a  Mass  for 
the  soul  of  la  pauvre  Jeannettef  I  hadn't  thought 
of  that,  and  was  out  of  bed  in  a  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
and  had  lighted  the  lamp,  and  collected  every  sou 
we  possessed,  and  put  it  into  a  bag,  when  she 
started  up  in  bed,  crying :  'But  where  shall  we  hide 
the  bag?'  'Cache-le  entre  tes  jambes,'  I  answered. 
It  was  a  happy  idea,  pas?  It  was  there  that  she  put 
it  sure  enough,  and  slept  soundly  until  morning, 
knowing  it  to  be  safe." 

I  burst  out  laughing. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  indignantly  de 
manded,  dropping  my  portmanteau,  and  clenching 
both  his  fists.  "Is  it  at  the  leper,  or  at  my  wife's 
hiding-place?" 

"I  will  tell  you  when  we  meet  again,  Louis.  Au 
revoir."  And  without  more  words,  I  hastened  back 
to  the  marquise. 

As  I  drew  near  the  brougham,  in  which  she  was 
already  seated  with  Jacqueline  Lolif,  it  was  to  hear 
her  say:  "Monsieur  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  must  be 
beside  himself  with  grief.  I  shall  ask  Jean " 

"No,  no,  please,  not  a  word  to  any  one !  I  should 
be  more  terrified  than  ever." 

"Then  you  must  tell  me  absolutely  everything, 
Jacqueline  ...  ah,  here  is  Jean  at  last !" 

I  jumped  into  the  carriage,  with  many  apologies 
for  being  so  long  in  returning,  then  we  drove  away. 
We  were  all  too  busy  with  our  own  thoughts  to 
find  time  for  much  conversation ;  indeed,  what  little 


250  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

talk  we  hazarded  was  quickly  drowned  in  the  rattle 
of  the  window-panes,  as  we  jolted  over  the  cobbles 
of  the  granite  city  on  the  knoll.  At  the  top  of  the 
rue  de  la  Constitution,  we  bore  to  the  left  into  the 
route  de  Saint  Quentin,  an  old-world  hamlet,  be 
yond  the  Quesnoy,  from  which  Jeannette's  family 
had  taken  its  name.  Cresting  the  hill  to  the  left  of 
us,  the  historic  chateau  of  the  Quesnoys  turned  its 
western  wing  to  the  broad  avenue  of  chestnuts,  up 
which  a  horseman  was  cantering  leisurely. 

"Tiens!"  exclaimed  the  marquise,  "there  is  my 
husband." 

"I  like  his  seat,"  I  replied  with  enthusiasm. 

"Oh,  he  rides  beautifully,"  she  conceded :  "he  was 
in  the  cavalry  in  his  younger  days,  you  see." 

"A  seat  like  his,  madame,  is  a  gift." 

"That  would  certainly  account  for  the  reckless 
way  he  expends  it  out  hunting  in  Leicestershire," 
she  smiled. 

"He  rides  to  hounds  in  England,  then?" 

"Yes,  this  is  the  first  season  he  has  missed  for 
years  and  years." 

On  hearing  our  approach,  the  rider  swung  his 
horse  round,  as  on  a  pivot,  and  then  drew  rein 
with  a  hand  as  light  as  a  woman's;  I  could  swear 
that  the  turn  was  made  within  the  length  of  the 
thoroughbred.  In  my  admiration  at  his  horseman 
ship,  I  was  so  rude  as  to  crane  my  neck  through  the 
window,  and  met  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  cool  and  im 
perturbable,  in  a  face  of  bronze. 

"I  bid  you  welcome  home,  madame,"  he  said, 
raising  his  hat  as  we  trotted  by. 

The  voice  matched  the  eyes,  I  thought,  with  this 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      251 

difference,  that,  whereas  the  eyes  twinkled  with 
good-humoured  amusement  at  his  wife's  return, 
the  voice  seemed  to  owe  its  fluency  to  some  spring 
of  irony,  hot  and  comforting — as  ice  when  changed 
into  water  attests  the  presence  of  latent  heat. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Fedor  and  Ivan?"  he 
continued,  on  dismounting  at  the  bottom  of  the 
perron.  "I  was  reluctantly  compelled  to  dismiss 
their  predecessors  on  leaving  for  Russia  last  Mon 
day  morning.  Breakfast  had  been  five  minutes  late, 
and  tides  and  trains  wait  for  no  man.  .  .  .  Ah, 
Jacqueline,  is  that  you?  Come  in,  chere  enfant— 
how  tired  you  look!  ....  Come,  come,  madame, 
introduce  me  to  your  friend — his  face  seems  not 
unfamiliar." 

"Monsieur  Jean  Bienvenu,  of  the  '  mur 
mured  the  marquise,  with  a  hesitation  which  was 
new  to  me. 

Her  husband  interrupted  her : — 
" — Your  name  is  appropriate  to  the  occasion,  mon 
sieur,"  he  said  with  a  sudden  smile  of  welcome. 

" — Of  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm,"  bravely  com 
pleted  his  wife. 

"Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm?  Well,  that  only  makes 
the  name  more  appropriate  to  the  meeting,"  he 
replied,  the  smile  turning  to  one  of  amusement  as 
he  courteously  bowed  me  into  the  hall.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Monsieur  Bienvenu  is  not  the  first 
member  of  that  household  whom  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  to-day.  Monsieur  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy,  for  instance,  greeted  me  this  afternoon." 
He  turned  to  me :  "Not,  I  think,  a  relative  of 
yours,  monsieur?"  he  remarked. 


252  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"By  adoption  only,  monsieur  le  marquis." 

He  then  glanced  towards  his  wife. 

"I  need  scarcely  ask  you,  Claire,  if  you  can  see 
the  likeness !"  he  pointedly  exclaimed. 

"Nothing  exasperates  me  so  much,"  she  replied, 
flushing,  "as  to  be  considered  like  any  one  but  my 
self  :  and  so  I  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  those  whose 
individualities  should  exempt  them  from  invidious 
comparisons." 

"Well,  I  can  see  the  likeness  more  clearly  than  I 
can  understand  your  drift."  And  so  saying,  he 
returned  to  me.  "The  fact  is,  monsieur,  I  have 
an  eye  for  likenesses  which  elude  the  unobservant 
.  .  .  likenesses  which  owe  more  to  the  inner  spirit 
than  to  similarity  of  features.  An  artist  would 
understand.  .  .  ." 

"I  can  lay  no  claim  to  the  artistic  temperament, 
I  fear,"  I  fired. 

"It  grows,  it  grows!  .  .  .  Claire,  didn't  you  see 
it  then?" 

"All  I  noticed,  Gerard,  was  the  wise  determination 
on  the  part  of  our  guest  to  have  you  observe  his 
likeness  to  himself."  And  with  those  parting 
words,  she  went  upstairs,  accompanied  by  Jacque 
line. 

The  marquis  looked  at  me  with  a  quizzical 
smile : 

"May  I  hazard  the  conjecture,  monsieur,  that  you 
met  my  wife  in  Brussels?" 

"Yes;  and  madame  was  kind  enough  to  ask  me 
to  accompany  her  to  Littremont." 

"Was  not  Monsieur  de  Tesson  there  to  escort  her 
home?" 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      253 

"Monsieur  de  Tesson,  I  believe,  had  been  called 
away  a  few  hours  before." 

"That    would    certainly    explain    his    absence, 

and " 

—And,  may  I  trust,  my  presence  here,  mon 
sieur?"  I  quickly  asked. 

"A  surprise  so  pleasurable,  monsieur,  needs,  of 
course,  no  explanation.  Did  you  happen  to  meet 
Monsieur  de  Tesson?" 

"Twice,  monsieur,  at  the  Chateau  de  la  See ;  and, 
again,  by  chance,  at  the  opera." 

"An  attractive  personality,"  he  suggested.  I  was 
on  my  guard. 

"To  a  musician — very,"  I  parried. 

The  marquis  refrained  from  further  pressure, 
and  changed  the  subject. 

"While  the  ladies  are  exchanging  confidences  up 
stairs,  shall  we  withdraw  to  the  salon  and  have  a 
quiet  talk?"  he  inquired,  with  an  unfathomable 
smile. 

"Delighted,  monsieur,"  I  replied. 

The  parallel  staircase  led,  steep  and  straight,  to 
the  first  floor,  and  in  each  oaken  tablet  hung  a 
family  portrait  in  its  antique  frame  of  gold.  The 
marquis,  without  so  much  as  glancing  at  the  por 
traits,  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs  and  opened  the 
drawing-room  door. 

"In  this  room,"  said  he,  "instinct  goes  hand  in 
hand  with  memory,  the  present  slips  back  into  the 
past  and  the  Third  Republic  is  lost  in  the  First  Em 
pire.  It  is  the  only  room  in  this  republican  world  in 
which  the  Emperor  could  have  breathed  freely— 
see,  I  draw  this  curtain,  and  there  he  stands,  looking 


254  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

as  if  he  were  alive.  A  speaking  likeness,  is  it  not? — 
odd,  how  my  mind  will  run  on  the  subject  of  like 
nesses  to-day!  The  Emperor's  last  gift  to  my 
great  ancestor,"  he  ended,  as  he  closed  the  curtain. 
"Now,  monsieur,  for  a  quiet  talk."  He  drew  two 
chairs  to  the  fireside.  .  .  .  "Sit  down,  I  beg.  .  .  . 
By  the  bye,  when  I  met  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  this 
morning,  he  was  dressed  in  black.  In  the  circum 
stances,  his  wearing  mourning  struck  me  as  queer." 

I  fired  up.  "What  more  natural!"  I  cried: 
"Jacques  has  good  reason  to  believe  her  to  have 
committed  suicide." 

"So  you  have  heard  that  story  already?" 

"Yes,  from  Louis  Bataille,  a  neighbour  of  mine. 
I  met  him  at  the  station  an  hour  ago." 

"Frankly,  do  you  really  believe  the  rumour?  If 
so,  what  could  have  been  her  motive?" 

"It  could  only  have  been  to  escape  from  the  one 
alternative  to  remaining  with  her  husband.  She 
may  have  had  to  choose  between  living  on  with 
the  man  whom  she  did  not  love,  and  going  to  the 
man  whom  she  did." 

"Are  you  alluding  to  yourself?"  His  tone  had 
the  keen  edge  of  a  blade. 

"I  was  thinking,  monsieur — hypothetically,  of 
course — of  a  much  older  man  than  myself." 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  fell  to  pacing  the  floor, 
his  elbows  twitching  nervously,  but  his  head  airily 
poised,  as  if  he  would  dominate  a  sudden  invasion 
of  irascibility  by  an  assumption  of  sprightly  un 
concern.  After  a  brief  tussle  he  succeeded,  and 
resumed  his  seat  at  my  side. 

"She  would  not  have  hesitated  to  go  to  him," 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      255 

he  observed  nonchalantly,  "if  he  had  bid  her  come"  : 
and  his  eyes  challenged  me  to  contradict  the  self- 
complacent  words,  the  smile  on  his  lips  growing 
more  and  more  quizzical  as  he  watched  me.  Then 
after  a  short  pause :  "That  goes  without  saying, 
of  course." 

"Then  why  say  it,  monsieur?"  I  retorted  with 
considerable  heat.  "For  my  part,  I  had  rather 
regard  her  eagerness  to  go  to  him  as  an  open 
question." 

"What  more  natural!"  he  quoted,  smiling  pleas 
antly. 

"It  would  have  been  more  natural,  surely,  if 
you  had  made  the  remark?" 

A  slight  flush  tinged  the  bronze  of  his  face,  as  he 
struggled  to  laugh  off  the  quick  rejoinder. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  he,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  tone,  "when  I  was  as  young  as  you  I  might  well 
have  made  it.  I  am  wiser  nowadays,  thanks  to 
twenty-three  years  of  additional  experience.  Live 
and  learn.  You  may  take  it  from  me,  she  would 
not  resist  his  summons,  and,  since  she  certainly 
never  joined  him — 

"He  sent  for  her,  then?"  I  broke  in,  my  hands  in 
voluntarily  clenched. 

" — She  must  have  been  done  to  death  .  .  .  and, 
in  all  probability,  before  she  started  on  her  journey" ; 
and  he  emphasised  his  conclusions  in  an  unusually 
incisive  voice. 

"A  hop,  skip,  and  jump,  and  you  have  outdis 
tanced  the  whole  of  my  family,"  I  ironically  cried : 
"in  their  impartial  investigations  of  this  mystery! 
Believe  me,  monsieur,  we  are  duly  grateful  to  you 


256  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

for  your  timely  assistance!  It  is  of  inestimable 
encouragement  to  us  to  learn  that  the  cadet  branch  is 
on  our  side  for  once!  Cannot  you  add  to  our  in 
debtedness,  monsieur,  by  taking  another  bound  or 
two,  and  laying  the  murderer  by  the  heels  ?" 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  listening  un 
moved  to  my  stinging  irony.  On  its  conclusion,  he 
sat  up,  and  said  with  an  exasperating  nonchalance : — 

"One  bound,  monsieur,  would  be  enough.  Listen 
to  me,  I  beg.  In  my  absence,  my  bailiff  made  it 
his  duty  to  collect  such  evidence  as  would  jump 
to  the  eyes  of  the  casual  observer,  upon  the  accumu 
lative  strength  of  which  he  summoned  me  back  by 
wire.  On  my  return  this  morning,  I  set  myself  to 
unravel  a  knotty  point  or  two  which  had  puzzled 
him — by  the  way,  have  you  been  on  board  the 
Frivole,  since  Jeannette — since  Madame  Jacques 
disppeared?"  .  .  . 

His  judicial  manner  irritated  me  beyond  endur 
ance.  The  difficulty  was  to  sit  still.  I  replied  with 
rising  impatience : — 

"No,  I  have  not :  I  detest  the  boat !  Two  of  my 
friends  were  drowned  on  board,  when  I  was  in  the 
Chasseurs.  Then  back  she  danced  on  the  great 
tidal  wave,  leaving  my  friends  buried  in  the  quick 
sands.  .  .  ." 

"Parbleu!  an  ill-omened  boat!  .  .  .  And  Jean 
nette,  did  she  ever  go  sailing  in  her  ?"  .  .  . 

"Certainly  not,"  I  rapped  out:  "she  used  to  call 
her  the  Death-boat." 

"The  Death-boat,  parbleuf  That  was,  indeed, 
prophetic! — wait,  wait,  restrain  your  feelings,  I 
entreat :  I  have  proof  to  the  contrary  of  what  you 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      257 

affirm  in  my  waistcoat  pocket.  .  .  ."  And  after  a 
thoughtful  pause  he  drew  out  the  one  thing  of  all 
others  which  Jeannette  had  prized  the  least.  "Her 
wedding-ring,  you  see,  monsieur,"  he  continued,  and 
then  handed  it  to  me  for  inspection. 

I  took  the  ring  in  my  hand :  memories  flooding 
my  eyes  with  moisture.  .  .  .  Upon  my  conscience, 
at  any  rate,  the  golden  hoop  she  used  to  toy  with 
absent-mindedly  was  become  a  leaden  burden.  .  .  . 
But  what  of  my  companion's?"  .  .  . 

"It  got  wedged  between  two  loose  boards,"  I 
heard  him  say.  "It  never  really  fitted  her  slender 
finger,  did  it,  now?  I  cannot  count  the  times  she 
used  to  lose  it.  ...  A  standing  joke  between  us 
always."  .  .  .  He  paused,  to  scan  my  face.  .  .  . 
"Tiens!  in  your  case  also! — grim,  is  it  not,  to  think 
of  our  laughter  now  ?"  .  .  . 

"I  am  waiting  for  your  evidence,  monsieur,"  I 
reminded  him. 

"Patience,  patience,  monsieur :  is  it  not  in  my 
power  to  forget  so  quickly  as  you.  .  .  .  Well,  to 
resume :  I  chanced  to  meet  her  husband  this  fore 
noon,  on  the  river,  opposite  the  leper-house.  What 
a  powerful  oar  he  rows !  When  he  caught  sight  of 
me,  he  leisurely  moored  his  boat ;  then  up  he  strode, 
his  great  shoulders  squared,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
shook  me  by  the  hand,  telling  me  of  his  own  initia 
tive,  and  in  the  most  convincing  manner,  all  his 
reasons  for  wearing  black.  ..." 

He  paused,  as  if  to  give  me  time  to  tick  off  the 
reasons  in  my  mind. 

"Those  reasons,  monsieur,"  he  continued,  "were, 
I  frankly  admit,  so  strong  and  so  persuasive,  that 


258  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

I  was  bound  to  offer  him  my  deepest  sympathy. 
Furthermore,  the  stern  suppression  of  his  emotion 
was  most  impressive — the  more  so,  because  the  man 
was  changed  almost  beyond  recognition.  To  bor 
row  a  striking  locution  of  these  greves  of  ours :  la 
terre  le  resuppe  (terra  resorbet,  as  you  bacheliers 
would  say).  And  by  the  end  of  the  story,  he  looked, 
for  all  of  his  self-control,  as  if  he  had  one  foot  in 
the  grave  himself.  .  .  ." 

Again  he  came  to  a  pause :  this  time,  I  think,  to 
allow  the  picture  he  had  evoked  to  touch  my  heart, 
as  it  had  touched  his. 

"And  yet  ..."  I  burst  out.  .  .  . 

"...  And  yet,"  he  continued,  as  if  taking  his 
cue  from  me :  "and  yet  he  had  not  gone  a  dozen 

yards  before  he  aroused  my  suspicions " 

—The  wish,  doubtless,  being  father  to  your 
thoughts,"  I  interrupted. 

—No !  by  casting  furtive  eyes  behind  him  until 
he  disappeared  from  sight.  This  uneasy  watchful 
ness  put  me  on  my  guard.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone 
I  retraced  my  steps,  and  made  a  careful  examination 
on  board  his  boat.  .  .  .  You  know  with  what  re 
sult.  .  .  .  Later,  in  the  afternoon,  I  met  the  man 
again,  and  on  that  occasion  it  was  I  that  accosted 
him — with  my  hand  behind  my  back,  bien  entendu." 

"I  am  at  a  loss  to  explain  your  squeamishness," 
I  burst  out,  indignation,  at  last,  getting  the  better 
of  my  curiosity. 

"So  was  he,  I  do  assure  you :  his  hauteur  equalled 
mine.  I  then  advised  him  to  reconsider  his  theory 
of  suicide,  in  favour  of  mine  of  foul  play.  .  .  ." 

I  leaped  to  my  feet. 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      259 

"I  won't  listen  to  another  word!  Your  insinua 
tions  are  as  hasty  as  unjustifiable.  .  .  ." 

"Quite  the  reverse,"  he  coolly  interrupted :  "they 
are  as  justifiable  as  they  are  deliberate." 

I  stood  over  him,  pale  with  passion. 

"If  you  were  as  frank  to  Jacques,  you  must  have 
fared  badly.  The  wonder  is,  you  had  sufficient 
energy  left  to  continue  your  congenial  task  of 
spying." 

He  met  my  angry  challenge  with  a  steady  domin 
ating  stare. 

"When  one  is  searching  for  clues,"  he  remarked : 
"the  whole  world  is  open  to  one's  investigation." 

"Without  a  police  warrant  even?"  I  blandly  in 
quired,  toning  my  voice  to  his. 

He  snapped  his  fingers  on  a  shrug:  "Voilal" 
he  rapped  out  incisively. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  withdraw  your  insinuations 
without  a  moment's  hesitation.  .  .  ." 

"Come,  come,  monsieur,  do  not  threaten  me  in 
defence  of  a  scoundrel!  His  face  would  have 
silenced  your  belief  of  his  innocence.  Not  a  word 
could  he  force  himself  to  utter,  hard  as  he  tried.  An 
instant  he  stared  at  the  ring  in  blank  consternation : 
then  he  came  reeling  towards  me,  his  hands  stran 
gling  the  air  .  .  .  thus !"  And  the  marquis  made  a 
gesture  that  recalled  my  own  encounter  with 
Jacques. 

I  burst  out  laughing  at  the  recollection. 

"I  thought  as  much — trust  Jacques  to  get  to  grips 
with  his  opponent!  .  .  .  For  the  rest,  monsieur, 
some  people  twitch  their  elbows  when  they  get 
angry,  or  indignant ;  others — 


260  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Wring  necks,"  he  hastened  to  observe  gravely. 

The  words  drove  home.  .  .  .  Had  there  been  a 
struggle  on  bord  the  Frivole?  If  so,  when?  And 
had  forgetfulness  to  pick  up  the  ring  come  to  Jean- 
nette  upon  her  death?  .  .  .  Steady!  .  .  .  the  mar 
quis  must  not  perceive  my  sudden  misgiving.  .  .  . 

"Wring  necks?"  I  queried  caressly :  "not  yours, 
to  all  appearances,  monsieur  le  marquis !" 

"Only  because  I  was  too  quick  for  him.  .  .  . 
When  you  get  home,  ask  Monsieur  Jacques  du  Ques- 
noy  how  he  came  by  the  weal  on  the  back  of  his 
right  hand.  .  .  ." 

"Must  I  also  tell  him  how  you  came  by  the  ring 
from  his  wife's  finger?  .  .  .  Or  are  you  reserving 
the  information  until  you  can  find  time  to  report  it  to 
the  procurator  of  the  Republic,  in  whose  service  you 
would  appear  to  have  been  enrolled?" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  strode  up  to  me,  his 
elbows  beating  the  devil's  tattoo  on  the  air.  He 
struggled  hard  to  control  himself;  but  his  efforts 
were  all  in  vain.  Flinging  discretion  to  the  wind, 
he  allowed  all  his  pent  up  bitterness  to  explode : — 

"Have  a  care,  jeune  homme!"  he  burst  out:  "by 
Heaven!  It  is  not  your  likeness  that  would  protect 
you!" 

"My  likeness?"  I  gasped  out;  "my  likeness  to 
whom,  may  I  ask?" 

"To  the  Montvirons,  of  course!"  came  the  an 
swer. 

Missing  the  point  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  I 
could  only  stare  at  him  in  blankest  bewilderment. 

My  obtuseness  drove  him  a  step  further. 

"Don't  attempt  to   hoodwink   me,"   he   snapped 


AN  UNPARDONABLE  STROKE      261 

out,  "with  those  innocent  eyes  ...  of  hers.  You 
will  tell  me  next  that  you  did  not  discuss  the 
amazing  match  that  they  are,  those  eyes  of  yours 
and  hers,  when  you  were  together  in  Brussels! 
Deny  it  if  you  can!" 

Then  the  light  dawned  upon  my  perplexity,  and 
my  temper  rose  to  its  height. 

"Were  I  taking  advantage  of  that  likeness,  mon 
sieur,"  I  fiercely  retorted,  "I  should  not  be  defending 
the  honour  of  my  family  by  adoption,  but  command 
ing  you  to  respect  the  honour  of  your  own  house." 

"Where  our  honour  is  at  stake,"  said  he,  "the  two 
families  can  be  trusted  to  stick  together " 

" — But  more  closely,  I  will  trust,  than  the  union 
in  your  own  household  would  appear  to  be,  mon 
sieur  le  marquis.  .  .  ." 

He  strode  to  the  door,  and  flung  it  open;  then 
he  turned  to  me,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  lips  smiling 
contemptuously,  and  said  in  tones  of  concentrated 
passion : — 

"Were  you  my  son,  young  man,  I  would  keep  a 
rod  in  pickle  for  correction.  As  it  is,  your  insolence 
leaves  me  no  alternative  to  showing  you  the  way 
out :  you  have  outstayed  your  welcome,  Monsieur 
Bienvenu." 

I  followed  him  downstairs,  determined  to  have 
the  last  word 

In  the  hall,  I  strode  past  him  to  the  front  door 
and  opened  it;  then  I  swung  round  and  faced  him, 
collected  and  calm  : — 

"Whoever  my  father  may  be,  monsieur  le  marquis 
de  1'Empire,"  said  I  as  I  bowed  ironically  on  draw 
ing  his  attention  to  his  ancestor's  rise  in  the  peerage : 


262  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"it  is  source  of  satisfaction  to  me,  to  know  beyond 
a  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  it  is  not  yourself.  .  .  ." 
Then,  gazing  at  him  between  the  eyes,  I  added : 
"And,  doubtless,  an  equal  consolation  to  yourself, 
Monsieur  du  Quesnoy."  .  .  . 

The  shaft  drove  down  to  the  roots  of  his  self- 
esteem.  His  humiliation  was  painful  to  witness. 
Touched,  I  made  honourable  amends. 

"That  was  an  unpardonable  stroke,"  I  made  haste 
to  admit:  "most  humiliating  to  me  to  have  made 
it."  .  .  . 

And  the  next  moment,  Madame  du  Quesnoy  ap 
peared  on  the  stairs. 

I  beat  a  rapid  retreat,  leaving  husband  and  wife 
to  settle  their  accounts  together. 


CHAPTER  II 

MAN  PROPOSES 


I  STOOD  on  the  perron  with  the  double  flight  of 
steps :  the  one  leading  into  the  rosary,  the  other  fac 
ing  the  drive;  and  was  hesitating  which  way  to 
return  home  ( for  there  was  a  short  cut  through  the 
gardens  and  across  the  fields  to  Hawthorn  Ferry 
Farm),  when,  from  a  little  arbour  in  the  rosary,  I 
heard  my  name  called  softly  by  Jacqueline : — 

"Jean!  is  that  you?" 

And,  in  reply,  I  ran  down  the  private  side  of  the 
perron,  feeling  that  no  one  in  the  world  had  less 
right  than  myself  to  use  that  way. 

"Thank  God,  thank  God,  you  have  come  at  last !" 
cried  Jacqueline.  "Oh,  why  didn't  you  come 
straight  through  from  Brussels  ?  Didn't  you  feel  me 
calling  you  back?"  Then  she  flushed  crimson. 
"Forgive  me !  you  must  think  me  mad !  I  have  no 
claim  upon  your  movements." 

"All  the  claim  that  friendship  gives,"  I  answered 
warmly.  "How  often  have  you  not  been  my  little 
comrade  on  the  greves,  and  I  your  willing  aide-de 
camp,  helping  you  round  up  the  sheep  ?  I  have  not 
forgotten  those  happy  days,  Jacqueline."  But  no 

263 


264  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

answering  smile  curved  her  lips.  "How  did  you 
know  that  I  was  in  Brussels?"  I  asked. 

"I  did  not  know  until  you  returned  with  the  mar 
quise.  She  told  me  that  you  had  travelled  together 
from  Brussels — Jean,  I  telegraphed  to  her." 

"I  saw  the  telegram,"  I  replied. 

And  the  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks  again. 

"Did  you  think  me  very ' 

"I  thought  you  needed  a  champion,  Jacqueline. 
And  that  is  why  I  am  here." 

A  fleeting  gladness  softened  the  strained  look  in 
her  blue  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  need  one,  sorely,"  she  said.  Her  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper.  "Jacques  du  Quesnoy  has  got 
me  in  his  power." 

"What?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Hush !  .  .  .  He  might  hear !  He  hears  my  very 
thoughts,  as  they  chase  each  other  through  my 
frightened  brain." 

"Jacqueline,  .  .  .  little  comrade,  calm  yourself!" 

But  she  shook  off  my  hand,  impatiently. 

"No,  no,  I  am  not  hysterical,  as  you  seem  to  think. 
It  is  the  truth  I  am  speaking.  Ever  since  his  wife 
disappeared,  Jacques  du  Quesnoy  has  dogged  my 
footsteps  ..." 

"Bougre  de  mal  eleve!"  I  cried  fiercely:  "I'll 
quickly  teach  him  better  manners." 

"Chut!  .  .  .  not  so  loud.  It  grew,  this  power  of 
his,  until  I  am  now  at  his  mercy.  He  has  only  to 
say  'Come,'  and  I  follow  him.  'Meet  me  here, 
or  there,'  and  I  obey.  I  am  his  slave,  Jean,  his 
bondman,  through  all  my  body  and  soul — neither 
the  one  nor  the  other  can  I  call  my  own  any  longer." 


MAN  PROPOSES  265 

The  blood  was  singing  through  my  brain ;  I  could 
not  believe  my  ears. 

"This  is  madness,  Jacqueline,"  I  cried.  "I  tell  you 
it  is  madness." 

"Ay,  madness;  but  the  truth  none  the  less,"  she 
replied.  "And  the  madness  has  dated  from  the  night 
of  the  snowstorm,  when  I  saw  what  I  shouldn't 
have  seen,  and  he  found  it  out.  And  now — and 
now,  he  says  I  must  belong  to  him,  so  that  he  can 
watch  over  me." 

Her  words  drove  the  blood  to  my  heart. 

"You  know  something  about  Jeannette?"  I 
burst  out ;  when  she  silenced  me  with  a  gesture. 

"Chut!  .  .  .  not  a  word  of  her!  ...  He  would 
hear !  .  .  .  No !  No !  No !  I  know  nothing !  .  .  . 
Will  say  nothing!"  She  grew  frantic.  That  she  was 
not  telling  the  truth,  I  felt  positive ;  and  this  gave  me 
an  additional  shock ;  it  was  so  unlike  Jacqueline. 

I  calmed  her  as  best  I  could. 

"Jean,"  she  said,  very  low,  "how  is  it  that  a  whis 
per  will  thrill  one  with  horror,  where  a  shriek  would 
merely  pierce  one's  sense  of  hearing?  Is  it  because 
the  whisper  creeps  into  favour  with  the  imagination, 
whereas  the  shriek  only  awakes  it  with  a  start? 
If  he  would  take  my  imagination  by  surprise,  I  could 
resist  him.  He  knows  it,  too ;  you  wouldn't  believe 
how  quick  his  intuition  is  growing.  He  seems  to 
divine  what  tortures  me  most,  and  so  he  takes  my 
imagination  captive,  as  by  magic,  and  holds  it  in 
suspense,  through  the  eerie  spell  of  anticipation.  .  .  . 
Did  he  mean  that?  .  .  .  Or,  merciful  God,  could  he 
have  dared — dared  to  insinuate?  .  .  .  And  all  last 
night  I  lay  tossing  in  my  bed,  pondering  over  the 


266  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

unimaginable  hints  he  had  whispered  to  me  in  the 
sunshine.  And  when  this  morning  he  sought  me 
out  in  our  little  arbour  at  home,  and  I  saw  that  he 
was  dressed  in  mourning,  then  I  knew  that  he  had 
dared — did  dare — Jean,  can  you  hear  me  ?  I  mustn't 
speak  too  loud,  or  he  would  hear  me,  too?" 

"Jacqueline,"  I  broke  in  firmly :  "there  is  one 
thing  anyhow  he  dare  not  attempt  —  he  dare  not 
touch  you,  when  I  am  by  to  protect  you " 

"Chut!"  she  interrupted :  "speak  very  low !  .  .  . 
He  is  all  eyes  and  ears — eyes  that  can  see  in  the 
dark — ears  that  can  hear  the  trotting  of  a  mouse." 

"I  will  give  him  a  damned  good  thrashing  when 
I  go  home — the  cowardly  cur!  Jacques  of  the 
Iron  Hand  cannot  terrify  me !" — 

"Why  will  you  mention  names!  Didn't  I  tell 
you  to  speak  very,  very  low  .  .  .  under  your  lowest 
breath!  That  is  a  trick  of  his — he  has  learnt  it 
since  you  went  away.  .  .  .  He  sat  so  close,  his  voice 
was  breathed  upon  my  lips.  Flesh  and  blood  could 
scarce  be  nearer  than  he  came  to  me.  Not  a  corpse 
stiff  and  cold  that  comes  to  him  night  after  night 
between  the  chimes  of  twelve,  but  maiden — Jean, 
what  was  I  saying  ?  Ah,  yes,  that  was  what  he  said 
.  .  .  Warmth  and  maiden  innocence.  And  his  en 
circling  arms  met  upon  my  heart,  and  his  voice  fell 
so  low,  it  scarcely  broke  the  silence :  'Jacqueline,' 
he  said,  'will  you  take  its  place f  Oh,  God!  my  bed 
will  be  my  grave  else!  .  .  .  Not  yet  of  course  .  .  . 
in  the  heat  of  summer  .  .  .  it  will  have  left  me  by 
then  .  .  .  it  doesn't  like  the  warmth,  that  midnight 
thing,  that  rises  from  the  sands,  and  creeps  into  my 


MAN  PROPOSES  267 

bed,  between  the  chimes!' — But  God  took  pity  on 
me,  Jean,  and  sent  me  an  inspiration.  .  .  .  Hush !  he 
mustn't  know  that  you  are  with  me — oh !" 

She  broke  off  with  a  cry  and  clutched  me  by  the 
arm.  "You  must  go  at  once — be  quick!  He  will 
have  heard  by  now  that  you  have  been  with  me. 
Oh,  why  did  you  send  your  luggage  home,  or, 
having  sent  it,  drive  back  here  with  me?  When  he 
sees  you  he  will  say :  'So  Jacqueline  Lolif  has  been 
making  a  laughing  stock  of  me,  has  she?  .  .  .  telling 
you  of  that  little  weakness  of  mine,  in  burying 

a '  .  .  .  There!  you  see!  I  cannot  even  keep 

his  secrets  to  myself!  .  .  .  And  to-morrow,  he  will 

find  a  way  to  meet  me,  and  time  to .  Oh,  Jean, 

save  me! — save  me!  je  suis  a  bout  .  .  .Dead-beat, 
Jean,  even  as  he  is  himself!  .  .  .  Oh!  Jean!  .  .  ." 

Thereupon  she  lost  all  control  over  herself,  cling 
ing  to  me  and  weeping  softly. 

I  was  at  my  wit's  end. 

"Little  comrade,"  I  soothed,  "of  course  I  will  save 
you.  Am  I  not  here  to  protect  you?  But  you  are 
ill.  A  night's  rest,  and  you  will  be  yourself  again, 
and  laugh  at  all  these  fears."  But  upon  this  she 
grew  more  excited.  .  .  .  Passionate  even,  in  her 
terror. 

"You  don't  believe  me!"  she  wailed:  "then  how 
can  you  help  me?  And  the  marquise,  she,  too, 
thinks  that  I  am  only  a  foolish,  fanciful  girl,  and 
that  a  change  is  all  I  need."  She  rose  and  faced  me, 
her  blue  eyes  flashing  in  her  angry  despair.  "And 
yet,  in  telling  you,  I  have  broken  THE  SILENCE  —  a 
thing  I  swore  to  him  I  would  never  do.  .  .  .  How 
little  you  reckon  what  will  be  the  consequences — " 


268  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Jacqueline !"  and  I  caught  her  by  the  hand,  and 
pulled  her  down  beside  me;  speaking  firmly,  nay, 
sternly,  to  calm  her.  "You  must  be  your  own  sen 
sible  self,  or  how  can  you  expect  any  one  to  believe 
you?"  I  admonished.  "Now,  tell  me  everything 
from  the  night  of  the  snowstorm." 

Perhaps  my  tone  showed  a  shade  too  much  superi 
ority  in  the  consciousness  of  my  man's  strong,  calm 
judgment.  At  any  rate,  I  was  interrupted  by  Jac 
queline's  burst  of  scornful  laughter,  as  she  snatched 
her  hand  away. 

"Oh,  you  blind,  blind  men!"  she  cried.  "We 
women  often  wonder  if  you  ever  see  yourselves 
as  you  actually  are — see  anything  as  it  actually  is ! 
You  regard  everything  through  the  medium  of 
yourselves,  then  wonder  when  your  mental  vision 
shows  you  something  grotesque,  farcical,  ridicu 
lous!"  " 

This  was  the  old  Jacqueline  returned  with  a  ven 
geance.  But  I  felt  in  no  mood  to  bandy  words 
with  her.  I  rose,  therefore,  saying,  rather  stiffly : — 

"Que  voulez-vous!  ...  we  are  only  human  like 
yourselves." 

My  answer  calmed  her. 

"Forgive  me,  Jean,"  she  exclaimed,  "but  indeed 
you  must  believe  me:  you  cannot  help  me  else.  I 
dare  not  tell  you  all  I  know,  Jean,  and  not  half  of 
what  I  fear." 

"And  your  mother?"  I  asked. 

"Much  less  my  mother!  No,  no,  it  is  you  who 
must  help  me  to  outwit  him.  Listen  :  this  very  night, 
on  the  stroke  of  twelve,  you  must  set  the  old  clock 
chiming  the  hour — your  maman's  clock  I  mean. 


MAN  PROPOSES  269 

You  are  so  clever  with  your  tools  that  I  am  sure 
you  can  manage  it.  I  met  Felicite  in  the  market 
yesterday — oh,  what  tales  she  told  me  of  the  life 
at  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm! — No,  don't  be  angry 
with  her :  I  led  her  on,  on  purpose — and  she  said 
that  the  old  clock  has  been  carefully  put  away,  in 
the  cellar.  It  can  be  mended,  she  says — Hush!  I 
thought  I  heard  the  hall  door.  ..." 

And,  sure  enough,  from  the  perron  came  the  voice 
of  the  marquise,  calling, — 

"Jacqueline?  .  .  .  Are  you  alone,  my  child?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  madame!"  She  lowered  her 
voice  to  a  whisper :  "I  have  learnt  to  lie  since  you 
went  away,"  she  murmured. 

"Dinner  is  ready,  dear." 

"I'm  coming,  chere  madame.  The  twilight  is 
so  peaceful."  Then  to  me  :  "Set  it  going  upon  the 
stroke  of  twelve  .  .  .  not  before  .  .  .  this  very 
night.  Promise !" 

"I  promise,"  I  whispered  back. 

"Ah,  then  I  shall  sleep  till  morning.  Au  revoir" 
And  she  was  gone,  leaving  me  stupefied.  .  .  . 


I  waited  until  the  front  door  closed,  then  stole 
out  of  the  arbour,  and,  passing  through  the  rosary, 
cut  across  an  avenue  of  yew-trees  which  goes  by 
the  name  of  the  Priest's  Way.  With  a  bound  I 
cleared  the  hedge  beyond,  and  ran  down  the  steep 
fields,  which  drop  from  the  woody  Quesnoy  into  the 
green  valley  of  Pontaval,  with  its  twisted  apple- 
trees  and  ghostly  willows,  and  with  its  silver  streams 


270  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Across  the  grassy  flanks  of  the  precipitous  descent, 
zigzagged  the  State  highway  of  the  M.,  like  a  flash 
of  forked  lightning  from  the  clouds;  and  at  the 
bottom,  to  hearten  the  traveller  on  his  way,  stood 
the  roadside  inn,  Au  Bos  de  I'M.,  by  name. 

On  reaching  the  inn,  I  looked  at  my  watch,  only 
to  find  that  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  get  home  in 
time  for  supper.  So  I  stepped  inside  the  busy 
hostelry,  and,  after  a  hasty  meal,  set  forth  again 
to  Hawthorn  Ferry  Farm,  through  the  fruit  grove 
of  a  friend  of  mine. 

From  the  greve  in  front  of  the  leper-house  to  the 
great  bridge  of  Littremont,  the  tide  was  at  the  full, 
and  the  round-faced  moon  shone  down  upon  the 
widening  river,  and  upon  a  boat,  all  yellow  and  red, 
fretting  at  her  painter  in  the  bend  of  the  creek. 
How  she  beat  her  beams  against  the  rough  dike  of 
stone  and  tangue!  .  .  .  how  she  chafed  at  her  tether 
in  her  eagerness  to  follow  the  flow!  And  soon  I 
could  read  the  name  on  her  bucking  stern ;  it  seemed 
to  smirk  through  the  pi  ant  as  it  caught  my  eye: 
Frivole.  .  .  . 

I  was  on  our  drive  at  last,  and,  in  a  moment  or 
two,  in  full  view  of  the  house.  The  shutters  were 
still  unclosed,  and  as  I  drew  nearer  I  could  hear 
Andre  talking  in  tones  of  deepest  earnestness. 
From  within  the  kitchen,  I  could  hear  distinctly 
what  he  was  saying,  though  the  connection  did  not 
strike  me  until  later. 

"No,  Jacques,  it  is  my  duty — not  yours.  Even 
if  it  were  your  duty,  I  should  yet  request  you  to 
pin  your  faith  to  the  calmer,  steadier  hand.  As  it 
is,  I  insist  on  your  remaining  here." 


MAN  PROPOSES  271 

"You  are  treating  me  like  a  child,"  growled  back 
Jacques:  "And  by  God,  Andre,  I  won't  stand  it!" 

"When  I  begin  to  treat  you  like  a  man — then, 
Jacques,  you  will  have  cause  for  alarm.  Now  listen 
to  me." 

"As  if  I  ever  do  anything  else  but  listen  to  your 
verbosity!" 

"You  will  be  going  sea-fishing  the  day  after  to 
morrow,  and  the  Frivole  has  sprung  a  leak.  In 
Jean's  absence  it  is  your  business  to  repair  the 
boat!"  .  .  . 

Conscious  that  I  was  listening,  who  should  have 
been  in  Brussels,  I  fell  to  whistling  loudly  as  I  lit 
the  lamp.  The  kitchen  door  flew  open  almost  im 
mediately,  and  Andre  stood  on  the  threshold.  His 
face  was  sear,  and  stern,  and  aged. 

"Did  I  not  order  you  to  stay  where  you  were?" 
and  there  was  more  reproach  than  anger  in  voice 
and  eyes. 

"I  am  sorry,  but  I  could  not  help  myself.  Am  I 
in  the  way?" 

"You  would  have  been  more  welcome  had  you 
come  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"I  should  have  missed  a  unique  experience  if  I 
had  stayed  behind." 

"Ah?  you  are  impatient,  no  doubt,  to  write  it 
down  on  paper?  Do  not  burn  the  midnight  oil  too 
late  to-night." 

He  seemed  to  be  guarding  the  door  with  un 
assailable  politeness.  I  grew  restive. 

"I  am  impatient,  I  admit,  but  it  is  only  to  have  a 
word  with  Jacques.  Make  room,  Andre,  please !" 

He  moved  aside  with  a  gesture  of  admittance. 


272  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Tiens!"  he  exclaimed:  "this  time  the  window 
is  latched,  though  the  shutters,  I  see,  are  not  yet 
closed."  He  was  alluding  to  my  return  from  Raoul 
de  Guernon's,  as  much  as  to  the  possibility  of  my 
having  seen  or  heard  something  from  outside.  My 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  night  of  the  snow 
storm. 

"Still  no  news,  Andre  ?"  I  involuntarily  asked. 

"Still  no  news,  Jean,"  he  replied,  with  a  change  of 
emphasis. 

Jacques  was  standing  at  the  table,  his  right 
hand  behind  his  back.  His  suit  of  solemn  black 
was  threadbare;  he  had  worn  it  up  to  his  wedding- 
day,  in  memory  of  maman.  How  thin  he  had 
grown!  A  new  necktie  of  black  silk,  loosely  looped 
together,  spanned  his  broad  chest. 

On  my  entry  he  swept  something  from  off  the 
board,  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket.  The  gesture 
was  so  swift,  I  may  have  been  mistaken;  but  the 
sheeny  thing  looked  to  me  like  a  tortoiseshell  hair 
pin. 

Heavens !  what  hunted  eyes !  what  earthy  cheeks ! 
what  hungry  lips!  Jacqueline's  words  throbbed 
through  my  brain :  I  believed  them  now  .  .  .  every 
word.  .  .  .  And  Monsieur  Gerard  du  Quesnoy's 
convictions,  what  of  them?  .  .  .  Did  I  share  them 
also?  .  .  . 

On  this  I  stepped  up  to  Jacques,  my  hand  ex 
tended.  With  marked  reluctance  he  reached  out 
his  own  from  behind  his  back. 

"What  an  angry  weal  you  have  on  your  fingers!" 
I  exclaimed.  "Does  it  hurt?" 

"Nothing  hurts  if  one  makes  up  one's  mind  not 


MAN  PROPOSES  273 

to  feel  it,"  he  forced  himself  to  say,  and  quickly 
snatched  his  hand  from  my  grasp.  His  lips  were 
bloodless,  writhing  above  the  small  even  teeth. 

"Would  you  by  any  chance  prescribe  the  same 
remedy  for  Gerard  du  Quesnoy's  overwrought  feel 
ings  ?"  I  blandly  inquired.  His  eyes  dilated,  but  he 
could  not  utter  a  sound.  Andre  came  to  his  rescue. 

"And  have  you  anything  more  to  say  to  my 
brother?"  he  asked. 

"Not  at  present,  thank  you,  Andre." 

"You  came  back  with  the  Marquise  du  Quesnoy, 
I  hear." 

"Yes ;  and  I  had  tea  at  the  chateau." 

"Did  you  meet  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy,  then?" 

"For  the  first  and  last  time  ...  to  speak  to." 
And  I  emphasised  the  last  words. 

"Ah !  .  .  .  Then  he  told  you  of  my  meeting  him 
this  afternoon  as  he  was  riding  home  ?" 

"Of  your  meeting  with  him?"  I  exclaimed  em 
phasising  the  first  possessive. 

"Certainly." 

"Not  one  syllable." 

"Tiens! — blood  will  out." 

"Like  a  hairpin,  heinf"  I  laughed,  and  saw 
Jacques  look  away  guiltily  .  .  .  Then  I  had  not 
been  mistaken  after  all.  Impossible  to  put  off  my 
inquiry.  I  decided  to  speak  out. 

"He  spoke  of  another  meeting,  to  be  sure,  which 
would  appear  to  have  left  an  impression,  if  not  a 
sting,  behind  it — riest-ce  pas,  Jacques  ?" 

Andre  swung  round  his  head  and  looked  at  his 
brother  with  his  steady,  deep-set  gaze. 

"So  we  have  all  had  the  honour  of  exchanging 


274  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

courtesies  with  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy  to-day?"  he 
murmured,  partly  in  interrogation,  partly  in  ex 
clamation. 

Jacques  moistened  his  lips. 

"I  have  no  quarrel  with  the  man,"  he  muttered, 
"nor  has  Jean,  so  far  as  I  know.  My  suspicions 
against  him  have  proved  groundless.  Any  man  may 
make  a  mistake." 

"Where  was  the  Frivole,  Jacques,  on  the  night  of 
the  snowstorm,"  I  asked  casually. 

"In  the  boat-house — where  else  do  you  think  she 
was?" 

"Did  you  look  for  Jeannette  in  the  boat-house, 
Andre?" 

"Of  course!  I  searched  for  her  in  every  likely 
and  in  every  unlikely  place  about  the  premises. 
Not  a  trace  of  her  was  to  be  found.  The  Frivole 
was  in  the  boat-house  up  to  a  day  or  two  ago." 

"No  clues,  though,  I  suppose?" 

"Clues  I  have  found,  and  to  spare." 

"In  the  boat-house  or  in  the  Frivole?" 

"In  neither." 

He  turned  from  me  to  his  brother.  I  followed  his 
lead.  Jacques,  caught  between  the  brisk  fire  of  our 
eyes,  flung  off  his  lethargy,  and  assumed  his  old 
familiar  braggadocio. 

"If  you  have  a  card  of  the  same  suit  up  your 
sleeve,  Jean,"  he  jocularly  exclaimed,  "fork  it  out, 
and  pop  it  on  the  table.  I  lead  trumps."  And  he 
banged  down  the  tortoiseshell  hairpin. 

"We  will  return  to  the  hairpins  later,  Jacques," 
broke  in  Andre,  in  a  voice  between  a  warning  and 
a  threat :  "she  had  such  an  immense  wealth  of  hair, 


MAN  PROPOSES  275 

your  wife,  and  'twas  a  stormy  night,"  he  added. 
And  this  time  tone  and  glance  conveyed  a  deliberate 
counsel  of  caution. 

"And  such  slender  fingers,  too,"  I  quickly  added: 
"she  couldn't  help  losing  her  wedding-ring." 

"She  was  wearing  her  wedding-ring  when  she  ran 
away — damn  you!"  burst  in  a  roar  from  Jacques. 

"Of  course.  That's  proved  by  the  fact  that  it 
slipped  off  her  finger  when  she  jumped  aboard  the 
Frivole" 

"Who  saw  her  jump  on  board  the  Frivole?"  he 
answered  me  back,  quick  as  an  echo,  loud  as  a  clap 
of  thunder.  His  eyes  started  out  of  the  sockets. 
His  fingers  plucked  at  the  loops  of  his  black  neck 
tie. 

"I  deduced  the  haste,  Jacques :  the  marquis  dis 
covered  the  ring,  and  has  trumped  up  a  theory  of 
foul  play." 

A  sudden  light  flashed  into  Andre's  eyes. 

"Has  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy  already  heard  that 
we,  who  have  collected  and  weighed  the  evidence, 
believe  her  to  have  committed  suicide?"  he  rapped 
out .  .  .  And  Jacques  squared  his  shoulders. 

"Should  I  have  quarrelled  with  him  otherwise?" 
I  retorted. 

"Thank  you,  Jean,  for  your  brotherly  attitude 
towards  us;  I  much  appreciate  it." 

"Gerard  du  Quesnoy's  a  liar,"  ground  out 
Jacques,  as  I  returned  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"Seeing  is  believing,  Jacques.  The  ring  was  in 
the  palm  of  my  hand  two  hours  ago." 

"She  must  have  sent  it  to  him  then — by  God, 
Andre !  that's  it !"  he  cried,  in  a  flutter  of  excitement. 


276  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"And  where  did  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy  say 
that  he  had  found  the  ring?"  And  Andre  was  sore 
put  to  it  to  steady  his  voice. 

"Between  two  loose  boards  in  the  Frivole." 

He  caught  his  breath,  and  I  found  myself  catching 
mine.  I  suddenly  seemed  to  be  staring  into  a  black 
ness  that  was  being  gradually  flooded  with  light — 
a  light  that  was  bound  to  reveal  something  terrible. 

"The  Marquis  du  Quesnoy's  word  must  be  ac 
cepted  Jacques.  I  have  never  known  him  to  depart 
from  the  truth,"  spoke  Andre. 

"Well,  good-night  to  you  both,"  said  I,  and  turned 
to  go,  remarking  over  my  shoulder : — 

"Perhaps,  Jacques,  you  will  call  at  the  chateau 
in  the  morning,  and  ask  the  marquis  to  give  you 
back  your  wife's  ring.  You  must  have  a  strong  ob 
jection  to  its  remaining  long  in  his  possession." 

Andre,  who  was  gazing  thoughtfully  out  of  the 
window  at  the  rising  moon,  swung  leisurely  round : 

"We  all  share  that  objection,  Jean;  but  I  hope  to 
have  an  earlier  opportunity  than  Jacques  of  getting 
the  ring  back." 

"Surely  not  to-night?"  I  exclaimed,  incredulous. 

"And  why  not,  pray?     Is  it  not  the  full  moon?" 

"Oh,  if  that's  all,  there'll  be  light  enough  to  thread 
a  needle  by." 

"Mine  is  a  pleasanter  task,"  smiled  Andre,  "but 
it  does  not  happen  to  be  one  I  could  perform  effec 
tually  in  the  dark,  nor  with  any  show  of  propriety  at 
the  Chateau  du  Quesnoy." 

"Well,"  I  added,  at  a  venture :  "the  Chateau  des 
A joncs  may  be  sufficiently  far  away  to  enable  you 
to  keep  up  appearances.  ..." 


MAN  PROPOSES  277 

"Your  engaging  curiosity  never  fails  you,"  com 
mented  Andre. 

"Particularly  where  it  hits  the  mark?"  I  inter 
rogated;  but  he  was  not  to  be  drawn.  I  sounded 
Jacques.  "Are  you  going  out  as  well?" 

"Only  as  far  as  the  boat-house — the  Frivole  has, 
unfortunately,  sprung  a  leak." 

"Where?" 

"Under  the  two  loose  boards." 

"Likely  to  be  a  long  job  to  mend,  Jacques?" 

"Twenty-four  hours'  job,  most  likely." 

"Any  more  questions  to  ask  us?"  This  from 
Andre. 

"Not  for  the  present,  thank  you,  Andre." 

"We  are  always  pleased  to  oblige  you.  Good 
night  to  you,  Jean." 

"Good-night — and  a  safe  return,  Andre." 

Our  eyes  met.  His  gaze  was  a  counsel  of  dis 
cretion.  I  left  the  room  with  a  feeling  of  bitter 
disappointment  that  Jacqueline's  device  could  not  be 
put  to  the  test  until  the  following  night. 

Entering  the  cellar  adjoining  the  kitchen,  I 
looked  around  for  maman's  tall  clock,  to  discover 
the  ancient  timepiece  lying  stretched  on  its  back 
between  two  trestles,  with  a  white  linen  duster  over 
its  face.  Stone  dead  it  lay.  It  was  as  though  Old 
Father  Time  himself  were  laid  out  at  last.  .  .  . 

Though  my  fingers  itched  to  set  to  work,  my 
thoughts  were  otherwise  engaged.  Murmurs  would 
occasionally  reach  me  from  the  salle  basse,  then 
back  my  mind  would  rush  to  the  night  of  the  snow 
storm.  It  could  not  have  been  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later,  however,  when  the  front  door 


278  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

opened  and  Andre's  footfall  sounded  in  the  stable- 
yard.  Another  five  minutes,  and  I  heard  him  go 
trotting  down  the  drive  on  the  brown  mare. 

Two  more  minutes  wore  away.  Then  out  went 
Jacques  to  the  boat-house. 

The  way  was  now  clear.  Rushing  to  the  stables, 
I  saddled  the  fleetest  horse  we  possessed,  then  gal 
loped  as  hard  as  the  chestnut  mare  would  carry  me 
to  the  Chateau  du  Quesnoy. 

The  moon  was  shining  more  serenely  than  ever, 
as  I  arrived :  and  all  the  stars  were  twinkling  in  the 
vaulted  dome,  like  myriads  upon  myriads  of  eyes. 
....  What  consolation  have  they  not  brought 
mankind  in  times  of  grief,  God's  stars?  .... 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE 

1 

ON  dismounting,  I  ran  up  the  perron,  and  rang  a 
prolonged  peal  at  the  front  door  bell.  It  was  a 
seven  minutes'  gallop  across  the  park  to  the  sister 
chateau  amid  the  gorse.  Had  the  marquis  already 
started  ?  And  the  marquise,  was  she  still  up  ? 

One  of  the  Russian  footmen  answered  the  bell. 

"Is  monsieur  le  marquis  within?"  I  asked. 

"No,  monsieur;  monsieur  le  marquis  left  the 
house  five  minutes  ago." 

"On  horseback?" 

"No,  monsieur;  on  foot." 

"Was  madame  la  marquise  with  him?" 

"No,  monsieur;  madame  la  marquise  is  going  to 
bed." 

"Have  her  horse  saddled  at  once.  Is  Mademoiselle 
Lolif  up?" 

"Yes !"  cried  an  eager  voice.  I  looked  across 
the  hall,  to  see  Jacqueline  come  running  downstairs, 
greedy  for  news. 

The  footman  withdrew. 

"I'm  in  a  great  hurry,  Jacqueline ;  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  may,  later.  But  this  I  can  tell  you  now: 

279 


280  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

you  have  nothing  more  to  fear  from  Jacques. 
You  have  my  word  of  honour.  And  now  run  up 
stairs,  and  ask  the  marquise  if  she  can  get  ready 
in  ten  minutes  to  ride  with  me  to  the  Chateau  des 
Ajoncs.  Not  a  second  later,  mind.  We  must  be 
in  the  Gorse  Labyrinth  in  seventeen  minutes  from 
now.  Sooner  if  possible.  Quick!  her  husband's 
life  is  at  stake!" 

She  flashed  a  question  in  my  face,  without  a 
word. 

"Yes — a  duel  with  Andre — on  Jeannette's  ac 
count." 

She  raced  upstairs  and  vanished  round  the 
banister. 

I  walked  the  mare  up  and  down  the  drive,  my 
eyes  glued  to  my  watch,  and  my  spirits  sinking  with 
every  movement  of  inaction.  At  the  end  of  five 
minutes  a  groom  brought  round  a  bay  thorough 
bred.  A  thick  rug  covered  the  saddle.  I  joined 
the  groom,  and  we  stood  talking  in  the  bright  star 
light. 

Another  five  minutes  and  then  the  marquise  came 
down  the  perron  on  the  garden  side,  in  the  very  face 
of  the  moon.  Lightly  to  the  saddle  she  sprang, 
then,  swiftly  gathering  the  reins:  "Shall  we  have 
a  race  across  the  park,  monsieur,  or  is  your  horse 
too  tired?"  How  brave  a  woman  can  be. 

"Oh,  no !  she's  quite  fresh  after  her  rest,  madame. 
It  is  good  of  you  to  have  come !  Won't  the  marquis 
be  surprised  to  see  us!" 

"Tiens!  did  my  husband  go  in  that  direction? 
Are  you  sure?" 

And  away  we  rode,  our  horses  neck  to  neck. 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE          281 

"Now  tell  me  all  you  know,"  she  breathlessly 
exclaimed,  as  our  horses  stretched  themselves  out 
on  the  undulating  turf  that  lay  before  us,  round  the 
corner  of  the  house.  And  I  gave  her  my  reasons 
for  believing  that  a  duel  was  to  be  fought,  and  in 
the  Gorse  Labyrinth.  Her  first  thought  was  for 
the  marquis. 

"His  watch  is  a  minute  fast  always.  What  if  his 
adversary  set  his  time  by  it !"  .  .  . 

Her  whip  switched  through  the  air;  her  teeth 
closed  on  her  underlip.  The  bay  leaped  half  a 
length  ahead.  Creak!  creak!  went  the  saddles. 
On  and  on  we  galloped,  now  gathering  speed  from 
the  downward  slope,  now  easing  our  mounts  as  they 
breasted  the  ascent,  until,  from  the  pine  crest,  we 
could  see,  away  out  there  where  the  level  meads 
ended,  and  the  maze  of  the  gorse  began,  an  old-world 
chateau  with  yellow-ochre  walls  and  green  bal 
conies,  and  with  a  russet-brown  roof  of  thatch. 

I  spurred  forward,  and  caught  the  marquise 
up. 

"Ah,  there's  the  gorse  at  last!"  she  cried.  "A 
hearty  effort,  Jean,  and  we  shall  yet  be  in  time." 

"Yes,  the  moonlight  will  help  us  to  the  end,"  I 
cheerily  replied. 

Again  her  riding  whip  came  whistling  into  play. 

"There's  always  that  minute  to  reckon  with,"  she 
gasped. 

"You  must  be  worn  out  with  anxiety,"  was  all  I 
could  find  to  say. 

Her  laugh  rose  shrill  with  excitement. 

"It's  a  race  against  time!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
would  ride  all  night  long,  and  never  tire,  if  we  could 


282  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

prevent  bloodshed  in  a  cause  so  ridiculous!  She 
was  not  worth  so  careless  a  sneer  as  mine,  even." 

What  an  epitaph !  .  .  . 

I  gnawed  my  moustache.  There  fell  a  silence  be 
tween  us. 

Had  she  divined  my  feelings?  Perhaps  she  had, 
for  as  we  entered  the  winding  paths  between  the 
gorse,  she  flashed  out : — 

"Oh,  I  am  a  good  hater,  Jean !  Were  you  so  fond 
of  saints  ?  You  had  better  let  me  lead  you  through 
the  gorse;  I  know  this  prickly  maze  well." 

Round  and  round,  and  in  and  out,  we  twisted 
and  whirled,  till  I  for  one  felt  giddy.  The  only 
course  was  to  drop  my  bridle  hand  and  let  the  mare 
follow  her  leader. 

On  a  sudden,  a  cry  from  the  marquise  :— 

"The  clash  of  steel ! — Gerard  being  on  foot  must 
have  taken  the  short  cut." 

She  drew  rein. 

My  heart  went  out  to  Andre.  I  shot  past  at  full 
gallop,  eager  to  see  Andre  give  his  adversary  his 
quietus. 

"Stop,  Jean !  at  once !    I  forbid  you  to  intervene !" 

Her  voice  rang  out,  peremptory,  all-compelling. 

I  pulled  up  the  mare,  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
Gorse  Labyrinth. 

The  marquis  was  on  guard,  some  thirty  yards 
away,  his  face  turned  to  where  we  stood,  concealed 
in  the  gorse.  A  smile  flickered  on  his  lips,  then 
went  out,  like  a  light.  Had  he  heard  his  wife's 
outcry?  Andre's  vigorous  attack  allayed  my  fears 
on  that  score.  No;  the  marquis  had  seen  that  he 
must  fight  in  earnest,  and  that  was  all. 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE          283 

I  turned  to  the  marquise.  Her  head  was  slightly 
tilted,  emphasising  her  critical  expression,  as  she 
stood  watching  her  husband's  swordsmanship. 

"I  would  have  stopped  the  duel  had  it  not  begun." 
she  murmured.  "Once  drawn,  I  would  not  have 
him  sheathe  his  sword  out  of  any  consideration  for 
me.  He  has  spared  my  feelings  too  long — ever  since 
you  were  born." 

As  if  I  didn't  know!  But  I  owed  her  nothing, 
however  much  she  owed  her  husband.  My  sym 
pathies  were  all  on  Andre's  side. 

How  evenly  matched  they  were !  How  foreseeing 
their  judgment,  how  sure  each  hand!  I  was  so 
absorbed  in  balancing  the  merits  of  their  sword- 
play,  I  gave  a  start  when,  as  upon  a  prick,  the 
marquise  cried  out : — 

"Jean!  why  are  you  on  the  opponent's  side? 
Is  it  because  you  quarrelled  with  the  marquis  this 
afternoon,  and  then  left  the  house  without  saying 
good-bye  to  me?" 

And  I  had  thought  I  knew  her!  Why,  she  was 
turned  Amazon,  lusting  for  the  battle ! — or  was  the 
transformation  but  a  mask  for  disguising  her  jeal 
ousy  of  her  husband's  motive  in  measuring  swords 
with  the  champion  of  the  rival  house  ?  Be  that  as  it 
may,  her  present  attitude  would  mark  an  epoch  in 
my  life.  Up  to  then  I  had  prided  myself  on  my 
intuitive  understanding  of  the  kittle  sex.  Ever 
afterwards,  I  should  regard  all  women  as  passing  all 
understanding  by  tlie  wit  of  man. 

"He  impugned  you  honour,  madame :  I  now 
regard  him  as  the  opponent." 

"Oh !  oh !  oh !"  she  murmured  under  her  breath : 


284  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"the  boy  is  indeed  a  true  Montviron!"  and  her 
voice  rose  on  uttering  her  maiden-name,  even  as 
her  husband  had  raised  his,  on  the  same  surname. 

"Do  not  speak  so  loud,  madame,  or  else  Andre 
will  hear  you." 

"And  what  if  he  did  hear  me?" 

"Why,  he  might  miss  his  stroke !"  and  the  words 
were  no  sooner  spoken  than  I  longed  to  recall  them. 

"It  is  a  bitter  punishment,"  she  cried,  "to  have 
borne  such  a  son!  I  see  myself  as  in  a  looking- 
glass!  flesh  and  spirit  are  both  mine.  ..."  But  I 
scarcely  heard,  so  intent  was  I  on  the  righting. 

Her  brows  rose  to  an  arch  of  interrogation 
above  her  flashing  eyes.  Then  she  spoke  : — 

"Can  you  not  see  how  your  attitude  distresses 
me?" 

"I  am  only  paying  an  old,  old  debt,  madame : 
twenty-three  years  overdue,  if  it  is  a  day!  If  you 
would  look  at  Andre  a  moment,  you  might  under 
stand  my  feelings  of  gratitude.  He  is  true  as  steel — 
brave  as  a  lion." 

"It  is  to  my  husband  I  am  paying  my  debt,"  she 
made  haste  to  answer.  .  .  .  "This  is  the  hour  he 
has  been  awaiting  for  twenty-three  years — 

"Hush!"  I  cried:  "he  will  hear  you  if  you  speak 
so  loud !" 

"What  of  that?  I  want  him  to  hear!  I  want 
him  to  know  I  am  a  witness  to  a  duel  fought  in 
defence  of  a  woman  not  his  wife!  Fate  has  given 
me  this  one  opportunity  of  paying  the  debt  I  owe 
him — and  I  pay  it  gladly." 

And  I  prided  myself  once  that  I  knew  women !  .  .  . 

The  fight  waxed   furious  and   fast :   parry  and 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE          285 

thrust,  ripost  and  lunge,  in  ever-increasing  earnest 
ness.  A  hundred  times  they  changed  their  guards, 
a  score  of  times  their  ground.  And  now  their 
tongues  took  part  in  the  exciting  contest,  with  the 
reckless  bravery  of  the  French. 

"Ho\v  the  years  roll  back  on  the  clash  of  steel!" 
rang  out  the  voice  of  Gerard,  joyous  and  devil-may- 
care. 

"Farther  on  my  blade  than  on  yours,  monsieur 
le  marquis,"  broke  in  the  cooler  voice  of  Andre. 

"No  matter,  monsieur  le  comte !  Long  live  the 
Empire!" 

"I  dote  on  the  tempered  blade,  monsieur  le  mar 
quis.  Therefore  long  live  the  monarchy!  Down 
with  the  Bonapartists!" 

"Why  lay  low  the  better  men,  monsieur  le  comte?" 

"Obviously,  monsieur  le  marquis  de  1'Empire,  to 
make  room  for  their  betters,  with  the  sovereign  at 
their  head.  Long  live  the  King!" 

In  reply,  the  marquis  flung  the  right  leg  forward, 
the  knee  bent  to  the  downward  thrust  of  his  rapier. 
Quick  as  lightning,  Andre  parried  the  stroke,  de 
prime,  his  blade  running  crosswise  from  the  right 
eye  to  the  left  arm-pit. 

"Tiens!"  laughed  the  marquis,  "that  cry  should 
have  been  your  last,  monsieur  le  comte!" 

"I  should  still  have  found  breath  to  repeat  it, 
monsieur  le  marquis." 

In  another  moment  they  were  corps  a  corps,  their 
legs  en  fente,  their  right  knees  bent  and  almost 
touching,  their  rapiers  clashing  at  the  very  hilts 
between  their  smiling  faces.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
Andre's  blade  had  been  the  swifter.  .  .  . 


286  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

And  at  that  moment,  as  they  stood  eye  to  eye,  with 
their  legs  split  so  far  apart,  that  their  right  thighs 
seemed  to  be  an  extension  of  their  legs,  I  saw  Andre 
glance  down  at  the  tip  of  his  blade,  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction.  Nor  were  the  marquise's  powers  of 
observation  less  acute. 

With  a  cry  of  distress  she  ran  forward. 

The  two  men  sprang  apart,  the  marquis  with  an 
obvious  effort. 

"It  was  vain  for  us  to  do  without  witnesses,"  he 
murmured,  playing  on  the  double  meaning  of 
the  word  temoin;  "quite  a  family  gathering,  I 
declare !" 

He  reeled;  in  a  moment  the  marquise  was  at  his 
side,  her  arm  supporting  him. 

"Gerard,  you  are  wounded !"  she  cried. 

He  sheathed  his  rapier  with  a  smile. 

"Am  I?"  he  asked,  and  drew  himself  up,  nis 
smile  brightening;  then,  as  at  a  twinge:  "Tiens!  so 
I  am.  I  never  felt  the  prick.  A  mere  scratch  no 
doubt." 

"A  scratch!"  she  exclaimed,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Andre's  rapier:  "the  point  of  his  blade — look! — 
it  is  tinged  deep  with  blood!  .  .  .  deep!" 

He  looked  across  to  Andre. 

"Tons  mes  compliments,  monsieur  le  comte,"  he 
said,  with  -a  nonchalant  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
"A  noire  rencontre  prochaine!"  And  his  voice 
trailed  into  silence. 

Andre  dug  the  point  of  his  rapier  in  the  soil. 

"Monsieur  le  marquis,"  he  replied,  as  he  wiped 
the  blade,  "your  wound,  1  trust,  will  quickly  heal. 
Nothing  would  delight  me  more  than  to  have  an 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE          287 

early  opportunity  of  returning  by  daylight  the  com 
pliment  which  you  have  paid  me  to-night." 

"Believe  me,  monsieur  le  comte,"  began  the  mar 
quis,  "I  am  honoured  ..."  His  voice  faltered. 

"Gerard,  you  are  trying  your  strength  too  far," 
broke  in  the  marquise ;  then  to  me :  "Jean,  would 
you  mind  putting  the  rapiers  back  in  their  box,  and 
taking  them  to  the  Chateau  des  A j  ones — and  Ger 
ard,  do  you  think  you  could  walk  a  little  way?" 

The  marquis  handed  me  his  rapier,  after  which 
I  turned  to  Andre,  who  gave  me  his. 

"Monsieur  le  comte,  might  I  trouble  you  to  assist 
my  wife  to  mount?  I  can  stand  alone  .  .  .  for  a 
moment  or  two.  A  pretty  stroke  of  yours,  monsieur 
le  comte." 

Andre  ran  forward,  leading  his  horse  by  the 
bridle. 

"Allow  me  to  go  for  the  brougham,  on  your  mare, 
madame :  she  seems  swifter  than  mine,"  and  in  an 
instant  he  sprang  to  the  unaccustomed  saddle ;  then, 
uncovering  his  head :  "May  I  leave  my  great-coat 
behind  ?  .  .  .  monsieur  le  marquis  will  certainly  need 
a  warm  wrap  in  this  bitter  frost.  And,  please,  stay 
where  you  are  until  my  return.  Any  exertion,  re 
member,  madame,  might  prove  dangerous." 

The  marquis  accepted  the  coat,  with  a  Quesnoy 
smile — Andre  rode  away,  still  leading  his  own 
mount  by  the  bridle — then  off  I  dashed  to  where,  at 
the  top  of  the  long  avenue,  the  chateau  with  the 
thatched  roof  covered  the  heights  amid  a  second 
maze  of  gorse.  .  .  . 

The  most  glorious  view  in  the  whole  of  the  west 
•of  France  lay  at  my  bridle  hand :  terraces  of  whin 


288  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

or  furze,  one  below  the  other,  led  from  the  Chateau 
des  A joncs  down  to  the  spreading  fields,  and  apple- 
orchards  in  the  valley  below,  and,  beyond,  to  the 
opal  wilderness  of  sea-sand,  with  its  winding  rivers, 
its  level  reaches  of  green  pastureland,  and  with  its 
shrieking  sea-birds.  Serene  and  calm,  the  starry 
sky  above;  dimly  opalescent,  the  moonlit  sands 
below;  milky-white,  the  veil  that  hung,  in  tattered 
shreds,  about  the  sea-girt  Merveille  on  its  gran 
ite  throne.  Let  the  sun,  however,  but  show  its 
face,  and  what  reflected,  ever-varying  hues  and 
shades  of  the  opal  will  flash,  from  sky  to  sea,  with 
sapphire  transparency,  or  with  the  sheen  of  gold. 
Let  the  frost  but  last  a  week,  and  the  prospect,  as 
now,  becomes  one  of  polar  splendour  and  arctic  in- 
hospitality.  It  is  the  hour  that  makes  the  picture, 
for  its  colours  are  as  changeable  as  its  distances; 
again,  it  is  the  moon,  for  the  life  along  the  banks 
of  the  tidal  rivers  must  dance  attendance  upon  the 
sea,  as  do  the  heron  and  the  fishermen,  the  peewit 
and  the  peasant ;  and  yet  again,  it  is  the  season,  for 
the  trees  are  not  always  green,  and  the  sky  blue, 
nor  is  the  tide  always  swollen  by  storm-wind  and 
downpour.  But  look  at  it  when  I  may,  it  is  always 
with  a  thankful  heart  that  I  was  bred  within  sight 
and  sound  of  its  manifold  spells;  so  now,  I  wished 
I  had  a  thousand  eyes,  that  I  might  see  the  whole  of 
it  in  one  all-absorbing  glance,  as  I  rode  past  the 
panorama  at  a  hand-gallop,  by  the  light  of  the 
round  faced  moon. 

On  reaching  the  house,  I  dismounted,  rang  the 
bell,  handed  the  box  to  the  footman  who  opened 
the  door,  telling  him  to  put  it  in  the  library;  then, 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE         289 

jumping  on  my  horse,  I  literally  retraced  its  hoof- 
marks  lest  I  should  lose  my  way  in  the  intricate 
windings  of  the  gorse  maze,  casting  a  farewell  look, 
ere  I  left  the  drive,  over  the  scene  which  was  dear 
to  me  as  life  itself. 


I  had  got  half-way  through  the  labyrinth,  when 
I  came  upon  the  marquis  lying  on  his  back  behind 
a  shrub,  with  his  head  pillowed  on  his  wife's  knee. 
By  that  time  I  was  so  buried  in  my  thoughts  of 
Jacques  and  Andre,  that  I  blurted  out,  as  I  pulled 
the  mare  up  on  her  haunches : — 

"Didn't  Andre  tell  you  not  to  move !" 

Her  eyes  reproached  me  as  she  answered :  "How 
could  I  help  it? — he  would  insist  on  walking  to 
meeting  the  brougham." 

"And  then  he  fainted,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  he  fainted  in  my  arms — hush!  he  is  still 
unconscious." 

"So  I  perceive,  madame." 

At  that  the  marquis  opened  his  eyes. 

"I  was  never  more  conscious  in  my  life,  Claire," 
he  murmured,  and  made  an  effort  to  sit  up,  as  he 
said:  "Was  that  Jean's  voice  I  heard?" 

"Lie  quite,  quite  still,  dear,"  she  begged.  "Yes; 
Jean  is  here.  Has  my  handkerchief  stanched  the 
wound,  Gerard?" 

"Thank  you;  yes,  the  wound  has  stopped  bleed 
ing,  I  think  .  .  .  Claire,  listen.  Fate  has  brought 
all  three  of  us  together,  Jean,  and  you,  and  me." 

A  sob  burst  from  her. 


290  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Gerard,"  she  murmured  low:  "you  can  best 
stanch  my  self-inflicted  wound  by  getting  well.  By 
getting  well!"  she  repeated,  as  she  nursed  his  head 
in  her  hands. 

"I  want  to  sit  up,  Claire,"  he  whispered.  "Help 
me,  please  ...  I  want  to  see  your  son." 

She  raised  him  in  her  arms.     He  gazed  up  into 
my  eyes,  a  quizzical  smile  playing  about  his  lips. 
"Quel  trait  d' union!"  he  murmured. 
She  winced.     "I  was  jealous,  madly  jealous — 
jealous  of  your  love  for  so  many,  many  women — 
jealous  of  them,  because  I  loved  you  so.  ...  Gerard, 
I  love  you  still,  I  have  loved  you  always."     She 
seemed  quite  unconscious  of  my  presence. 

"By  God!"  he  exclaimed,  his  strength  renewed 
by  some  moral  pang :  "the  boy  has  more  reason  to 
be  proud  of  his  father  than  any  he  would  have  if 
he  were  indeed  my  son."  He  turned  to  me.  "You 
take  after  your  mother,  boy,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes 
held  me. 

"My  mother  was  Andre's  mother,"  I  replied  un 
moved.  "To  her  I  owe  everything." 

The  blood  rushed  to  the  marquise's  face.  Her 
husband's  head  sank  into  the  sling  of  her  arms. 
"Claire,"  he  murmured :  "I,  too,  have  loved  you  all 
along.  I,  too,  was  madly  jealous — jealous  of  Leon 
de  Tesson,  because  he  fell  in  love  with  you.  I 
bound  him  to  me  because  I  could  not  bear  him  out 
of  my  sight.  And  he  stuck  to  me,  because  he  could 
not  bear  you  out  of  his — after  the  child  was  born, 
I  mean,  of  course.  You  were  never  alone  together 

afterwards,  you  and  he " 

"Not  until  you  sent  me  with  him  to  the  Chateau 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE         291 

de  la  See,"  she  quickly  interrupted.  "Oh,  Gerard, 
why  did  you  not  listen  to  my  pleading  then?" 

"Why?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  grown  faint  from 
weakness.  "Dame!  it  seemed  only  fair  to  you  to 
give  you  a  companion  .  .  .  since  I  was  not  long  to 
remain  .  .  .  alone  ...  in  Russia  ..." 

"Was  Jeannette  to  have  joined  you,  then?"  She 
had  to  ask  the  question,  although  her  chief  concern 
was  for  his  recovery  from  his  wound. 

He  nodded. 

"Oh,  Gerard!    Surely  you  never — loved — her?" 

"I  must  have  loved  her — indeed,  that  is  the  only 
excuse  I  have  to  offer.  .  .  .  Never  believe  a  man 
who  swears  he  could  not  love  two  women  at  the 
same  time.  .  .  ." 

"And  in  the  same  way?"  Her  voice  was  a  ques 
tioning  whisper. 

"I  sometimes  wonder.  .  .  .  We  are  all  polygamists, 
I  fear.  .  .  .  Ask  Jean.  ...  I  had  his  double  secret 
.  .  .  sooner  than  he  was  aware  of  it  himself.  .  .  . 
Jeannette  and —  '  his  voice  sank  low — "Jacqueline 
could  claim  his  heart  in  equal  measure — almost." 

"And  Jeannette  and  I  —  yours  ?"  Again  the 
question  would  out,  in  spite  of  her  keen  anxiety. 
The  marquis  spoke  not  a  word  for  a  moment  or 
two,  then  he  said : — 

"This  is  not  the  time  for  lying,  Queen  of  my 
Heart!"  And  his  voice  faltered  into  silence.  And 
in  that  silence  I  rode  away  to  meet  Andre. 

I  broke  into  a  gallop — in  and  out  through  the 
intricate  maze — never  stopping  until,  on  reaching 
the  level  meads,  I  saw  come  galloping  down  the 
park  from  the  pine-crested  knoll,  the  brougham  and 


292  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

pair  of  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy :  from  side  to  side 
it  swayed,  the  horses  at  full  stretch. 

I  waited  for  them  to  come  up,  then  rode  along 
by  the  open  window,  for  inside  the  carriage  was 
Andre. 

"How  is  the  marquis?"  he  asked,  in  English. 
"He  was  ready  to  faint  when  I  left  him." 

"He  seems  to  be  sinking,"  I  replied. 

Andre  made  a  swift  movement. 

"I  hope  not !"  he  exclaimed :  "I  pray  that  he  may 
yet  recover.  He  is  a  gallant  gentleman,  Jean." 

"And  the  doctor?"  I  said,  though  otherwise  un 
moved. 

"He  will  be  at  the  chateau,  I  trust,  before  the 
brougham."  Then,  in  French:  "Is  there  room  for 
us  to  turn  in  the  gorse?" 

"Scarcely,  I  think." 

"I  thought  as  much,  so  I  brought  a  stretcher 
with  me.  It  seemed  better  to  come  by  the  shorter 
way." 

We  carried  the  stretcher  through  the  maze  of 
gorse,  and  laid  it  down  beside  the  wounded  man. 

"Madame,"  said  Andre;  "the  carriage  is  waiting 
on  the  meads.  Time  meant  life :  every  minute 
counted.  It  counts  still."  And  we  laid  the  marquis 
on  the  stretcher. 

He  opened  his  eyes  as  we  carried  him  to  the 
brougham. 

"Time  meant  life?"  he  faltered.  "Well,  both  were 
worth  saving — for  some  things.  ...  I  am  so  far 
in  arrears,  and  so  much  is  overdue  .  .  .  twenty- 
three  years  of  life  is  what  we  owe  each  other,  my 
wife  and  I." 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  GORSE         293 

He  opened  his  eyes  again,  as  we  made  him  com 
fortable  in  the  carriage. 

"Monsieur  le  comte,"  he  murmured  to  Andre: 
"allow  me  to  offer  you  my  grateful  thanks  .  .  . 
for  all  your  kindness  to  Jean  Bienvenu,  Comte  du 
Quesnoy " 

I  cut  him  short,  protesting:  and  as  I  spoke 
Andre  stepped  aside,  out  of  earshot. 

"I  decline  the  title!  I  have  no  right  to  bear  it! 
It  belongs  to  Andre  and  to  Jacques,  and  to  them 
alone!  As  for  me,  I  am  a  foundling,  and  nothing 
more." 

The  marquis  toyed  with  the  wedding-ring  on  his 
finger.  "Would  you  disown  your  mother?"  he 
asked,  "and  disappoint  a  dying  man?"  I  remained 
silent.  "Very  well,  then,"  he  faltered:  "I  claim 
you  as  my  son,"  and  he  tapped  the  wedding-ring 
significantly  with  his  forefinger,  as  who  should 
say :  "You  were  born,  remember,  in  lawful  wed 
lock " 

Un  beau  geste?  .  .  .  You  cannot  really  think  so, 
Andre  ?  .  .  .  Would  you  have  done  it  ?  ...  To  me  it 
seemed  an  act  as  rash  as  it  was  indiscreet.  And 
how  bitterly  he  would  repent  it  on  his  recovery ! 

I  glanced  at  my  mother — then  quickly  averted 
my  eyes.  She  stood  confessed — a  penitent  bowed 
down  under  the  clement  hand  offering  her  forgive 
ness.  And  my  gorge  rose  against  Gerard  du 
Quesnoy,  her  husband. 

Andre's  eyes  had  followed  mine,  but  the  next 
moment  he  stood  bareheaded  before  her.  The 
expression  on  his  face  was  a  tribute  no  living  soul 
has  ever  wrung  from  him  since  maman  died.  Then, 


294  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

without  a  word,  he  took  his  cousin's  outstretched 
hand  in  his,  and  then,  with  a  careless,  "You  allow 
me,  Jean  ?  I  will  send  her  back  at  once,"  he  mounted 
my  mare,  his  hat  still  in  his  hand.  On  my  hesitating 
what  to  do  with  myself,  he  pointed  to  the  box-seat 
with  a  smile,  that  seemed  to  say:  "The  new  home 
calls  you — the  old  home  will  miss  you."  And  there 
he  stayed,  bareheaded,  in  token  of  his  homage,  until 
the  marquise  disappeared  from  sight. 

I  could  hear  the  mare's  swift  footfall  on  the  drive 
as  I  entered  my  mother's  home. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  VEILED  CONFIDENCE 
1 

THE  doctor  met  us  in  the  hall,  and  at  once  took 
control.  Turning  to  the  Russian  footmen,  who 
stood  by  with  the  body-servant  awaiting  their 
instructions,  he  ordered  them  to  carry  their  master 
upstairs  on  the  stretcher. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  assistance?"  I  asked. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,  not  at  present,  I  think. 
But  perhaps  the  body-servant  v/ill  assist  me  in 
putting  the  marquis  to  bed." 

"I  will  send  for  you,  Jean,"  murmured  my 
mother,  as  she  followed  the  doctor  upstairs.  "As 
soon  as  I  may,"  she  added,  over  her  shoulder.  And 
her  eyes  gazed  into  mine,  harassed  and  feverish. 
"My  cross  is  heavier  than  I  can  bear,"  was  the 
message  they  flashed  to  me,  ere  they  fell  once  more 
to  her  husband's  face.  How  still  he  lay !  ...  Rigid 
and  silent  as  on  a  bier!  . 


The  dawn  broke.  A  few  hours  wore  on,  and 
found  me  still  alone.  The  morning  tide  poured  in 
on  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  and  still  I  waited  in 
suspense  for  news  from  upstairs. 

295 


296  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Presently  I  went  to  the  window  facing  the  greves, 
and,  flinging  it  wide  open,  I  thrust  back  the  shutters, 
and  fastened  them  to  the  outer  walls. 

By  that  time  the  howling  wind  had  dropped  to 
a  hush,  as  if  it  had  blown  itself  out  with  its  latest 
breath,  and  the  swirling  sea-gulls  hung  fluttering 
in  the  air  above  the  outgoing  tide.  Winding  streaks 
of  clotted  foam  still  indicated  the  course  of  each 
tidal  river;  and  as  I  stood  watching  the  familiar 
scene,  I  fell  once  more  to  wondering  as  to  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy's  purpose  in  repairing  the  boat  of  ill- 
omen.  Ah,  well,  Andre  would  be  at  home  long  ago, 
and  would  be  keeping  a  watch  on  his  brother. 

I  was  still  absorbed  in  my  meditations  when  a 
light  tread  sounded  on  the  upper  staircase.  Noise 
lessly,  I  dashed  upstairs  into  the  salon.  The  eager 
footstep  hesitated  as  it  drew  near  the  drawing-room 
door,  then  stopped  altogether.  I  could  picture 
Jacqueline  withdrawing  her  outstretched  hand. 

"Here  I  am,  Jacqueline!"  I  called:  "do  come  in 
and  keep  me  company." 

She  entered. 

"Were  you  too  late  to  stop  the  duel?"  she  asked, 
indignantly. 

"It  had  begun,  and  so,  of  course " 

"And  so,  of  course,  you  allowed  it  to  be  fought  to 
a  finish!"  she  reproachfully  exclaimed,  her  every 
look  and  word  a  reproof. 

I  was  stung  by  her  injustice. 

"How  unjust  you  always  are!"  I  expostulated. 
"My  mother  is  a  soldier's  daughter,  and  as  a  sol 
dier's  wife  she  wouldn't  allow  me  to  intervene. 
Blood  will  out,  you  see.  And  what  is  more " 


A  VEILED  CONFIDENCE  297 

I  broke  off  abruptly:  Jacqueline  had  caught  her 
breath,  then  stood  staring  into  vacancy,  as  if  she 
saw  herself  a  solitary  spinster  in  utter  wretchedness. 
It  must  have  been  more  than  a  minute  before  she 
broke  the  silence,  that  fell  upon  the  hasty  revelation 
of  my  parentage. 

"Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  a  strange,  chilly  voice, 
"I  am  not  a  soldier's  daughter,  nor  do  I  claim  the 
right  to  bear  my  father's  name,  but  had  I  been  in 
the  gorse  labyrinth,  I  would  have  stepped  where  the 
danger  lay." 

"The  marquise  wanted  her  husband  to  win,"  I 
explained.  "She  would  have  prevented  them  from 
crossing  swords;  but  once  drawn,  they  should 
never  be  sheathed,  she  declared,  out  of  any  consid 
eration  for  her" :  and  I  turned  my  back  to  look  out 
of  the  window. 

"I  can  understand  the  wife  as  little  as  I  can 
understand  her  son:  you  are  both  to  blame,  but 
yours  is  the  chief  responsibility,  because  you  are — 
a  man !" 

I  spun  round,  to  meet  a  pallid  face  that  contra 
dicted  the  tones  of  defiance. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Jacqueline?  The  marquis 
was  wounded  in  fair  fight.  You  talk  as  if  his  blood 
were  on  my  hands." 

"Your  hands  were  free,  monsieur  le  comte — free 
to  clutch  each  blade  before  a  drop  of  blood  was 
shed.  Did  not  the  same  blood  flow  in  your  veins 
as  in  theirs?  No,  no,  I  look  for  you  and  find  you 
gone." 

"That  is  because  you  will  look  beyond  me.  Who 
said  I  was  his  son?" 


298  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"You  said  you  were  hers,  did  you  not?  And  if 
you  are  her  son,  you  must  be  his." 

"That  is  certainly  what  he  seems  to  think,"  I 
replied.  "He  was  the  first  to  call  me  comte.  I  did 
protest,  of  course,  but  he  would  not  listen." 

She  flew  into  a  passion,  a  way  Jacqueline  has  of 
covering  her  retreat. 

"As  though  I  cared  whether  you  protested  or 
not !"  she  burst  out,  her  eyes  flashing  and  her  hands 
clenched. 

"Jacqueline,  was  I  to  be  less  generous  than  the 
marquis?  Answer  me  that?" 

"And  now  he  babbles  of  his  generosity!"  she 
exclaimed. 

I,  too,  grew  angry. 

"Will  you  listen!"  I  shouted  out.  "It  is  not  my 
secret,  but  hers." 

"Why  shout  then?"  she  retorted. 

"I  am  only  angry,  because  I  may  not  confide  in 
you." 

"It  is  something  to  be  ashamed  of,  I  suppose,  this 
secret  you  may  not  share  with  me  ?"  .  .  . 

"It  is  certainly  nothing  to  be  proud  of,  anyway." 

"You  must  be  very  ungrateful,  then,  if  you  are 
not  proud  to  be  their  son." 

"Indeed!  and  forget  all  I  owe  to  maman?"  I 
paused  to  allow  my  words  time  to  reach  her  heart. 

"Your  maman  would  never  approve  of  your 
cowardice  in  not  stopping  the  duel,"  she  cuttingly 
retorted. 

"The  circle  is  now  complete,"  I  observed:  "and 
its  centre  is  jealousy,  and  its  radius  an  ungovern 
able  temper." 


A  VEILED  CONFIDENCE  299 

Jacqueline  almost  danced  with  rage. 

"Jealousy?  I — jealous — of  your  birth?  Is  that 
what  you  meant?" 

"I  meant  nothing  of  the  sort.  Your  birth  is  much 
the  same  as  mine — better,  all  things  considered: 
uncloaked,  unlike  my  own." 

"But  yours  is  a  secret  no  longer!"  she  wailed, 
involuntarily  betraying  that  the  link  coupling  us 
together  had  snapped  on  my  revelation. 

"And  then,"  she  continued,  "you  make  matters 
worse  by  accusing  me  of  jealousy — me !  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  considering  the  jealousy 
that  raged  in  your  own  heart,  and  made  you  re 
joice  when  the  marquis  was  wounded.  Can  you 
deny  that  you  were  on  Monsieur  Andre's  side 
throughout?  Your  mother  is  very  distressed  on 
that  account  .  .  .  ." 

"You  would  turn  me  inside  out !"  I  replied.  "Look 
into  your  own  heart,  Jacqueline;  why  should  I  be 
jealous  of  the  marquis?  My  thoughts  were  not 
with  Jeannette,  wherever  his  may  have  been." 

"It  is  with  Jeannette  that  they  should  have  been, 
for  all  that.  The  past  is  ever  present,  and  the 
present  will  never  pass,  for  it  can  never  change." 

"No,  no,  Jacqueline :  the  present  will  slip  by  only 
too  fast — and  I  cannot,  and  will  not  wait.  I  am 
ashamed  of  the  past,  little  comrade;  but  the  future 
may  be  yours,  if  you  will ' 

"You  must  not  say  another  word,  or  if  you  will 
I  must  not  stay  to  listen." 

"I  will  speak  out!"  I  cried,  impassioning  with 
every  word.  "I  love  you,  Jacqueline!  .  .  .  My 
dearest  wish  is  to  make  you  my  wife.  .  .  .  Oh, 


300  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

Jacqueline,  tell  me  .  .  .  will  you  marry  me?  .  .  . 
It  is  the  old,  old  question,  but  it  recovers  its  youth 
every  time  it  is  prompted  by  such  love  as  mine  for 
you." 

She  looked  up  into  my  face — into  my  very  eyes. 

"Would  you  have  asked  me  that  question  if  you 
had  remained  nameless?"  she  asked,  unflinchingly. 

"My  name,  I  tell  you,  has  been  generously  lent 
me.  It  is  not  mine,  Jacqueline,  even  to  discard." 
I  paused,  then  added  significantly:  "I  mean, 
without  untold  humiliation  to  the  marquise,  my 
mother.  ..." 

Jacqueline  gave  a  cry  of  enlightenment. 

"Oh  Jean!"  she  murmured:   "forgive  me,  Jean!" 

"Forgive  you,  little  comrade?  It  is  for  me  to  ask 
for  your  forgiveness." 

"Nay,  nay;  we  are  in  much  the  same  boat,  you 
and  I,  after  all,  and  can  sympathise  with  each  other, 
and  make  allowances  when  we  are  impatient." 

"That  is  absolutely  my  feeling,"  I  gladly  cried. 
"Now,  Jacqueline,  will  you  be  my  wife?" 

She  flew  into  the  shelter  of  my  arms.  And  as 
our  lips  met,  the  marquise  entered  the  room. 


With  a  backward  movement  of  her  hand,  my 
mother  closed  the  door,  her  eyes  yearning  to 
Jacqueline  for  consolation.  .  .  .  Her  radiancy  was 
gone;  not  a  vestige  of  her  serenity  appeared:  to 
me  she  seemed  already  widowed. 

Jacqueline  was  the  first  to  reach  her  side. 

"...  The  doctor  is  upstairs  still,  Jacqueline," 


A  VEILED  CONFIDENCE  301 

she  forced  her  lips  to  say.  .  .  .  "He  can  give  us  no 
hope  .  .  .  internal  haemorrhage  of  the  right  lung, 
and  inflammation  from  exposure  to  the  bitter  cold 
last  night.  .  .  ." 

And  Jacqueline  gave  her  all  the  comfort  that  lies 
in  silence,  and  in  the  pressure  of  the  hand.  .  .  . 

'  .  .  .  His  life ! — that  is  the  price  he  has  paid  for 
my  Montviron  pride!  .  .  .  Boy,  why  did  you  obey 
me!"  Her  voice  rose  shrill  as  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  mine. 

It  was  Jacqueline  that  answered  for  me : — 

"Was  it  not  the  soldier's  instinct  to  which  you  had 
appealed,  madame?  He  rallied  to  the  word  of 
command." 

My  mother  gazed  into  the  flushed  face,  that  scarce 
a  second  before  had  been  so  pale  with  commiseration. 

"It  was  to  his  love  for  me  that  I  appealed, 
Jacqueline,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips:  "for  I 
had  seen  that  his  sympathies  were  on  the  opponent's 
side." 

"Had  not  Monsieur  Andre  earned  his  gratitude, 
madame?  Perhaps  your  son  had  divined,  too,  that 
it  was  your  husband  that  you  loved  the  more." 

...  "I  am  the  more  to  blame  for  standing  by." 

"He  will  divide  the  blame,  madame,  and  take  the 
lion's  share,  if  any  blame  were  there." 

"You  know  there  was,  my  child,  for  you,  too,  are 
a  Montviron." 

"My  father  taught  me  to  speak  the  truth :  my 
mother,  to  temper  it  with  love.  .  .  .  And,  oh, 
madame,  all  the  love  a  daughter  might,  I  would 
give  to  you  if  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  My  mother  took  her  in  her  arms. 


302  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

...  I  returned  to  the  window;  I  would  not  see 
them  weep.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Whispering  voices  reached  me.  Then  my 
mother  said  :— 

"I  came  downstairs  for  the  Emperor's  portrait 
and  to  fetch  Jean — to  ...  his  father.  ...  I  am 
sorry  you  will  not  stay,  Jacqueline,  but  I  quite 
understand.  ..." 

I  went  to  Jacqueline's  rescue. 

"The  portrait,  mother?  I  will  take  it  upstairs 
at  once."  And  I  unhooked  the  picture,  then  opened 
the  door  for  her  to  pass  out.  Then  I  turned  to 
Jacqueline : 

"You  must  not  pack  your  things,  dear,  until  I 
have  had  an  opportunity  of  arranging  about 
to-night.  .  .  ." 

In  reply,  she  looked  towards  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece.  And  I  nodded  before  rejoining  my 
mother. 

We  entered  the  sick  room  together — and  with 
what  conflicting  emotions  on  both  sides !  . 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  REAPER 

THE  doctor  walked  to  the  window.  One  glance 
at  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy's  face  told  me  that  his 
life  was  going  out  with  the  morning  tide  .  .  . 

My  mother  stood  on  one  side  of  the  bed  and  I 
on  the  other.  She  reached  out  for  his  hand. 

"...  Is  that  you  .  .  .  Claire?"  he  asked,  his 
eyes  closed. 

"Yes,  my  Gerard  .  .  .  has  the  time  seemed  long, 
dear?"  .  . . 

'  .  .  .  Without  you  ...  it  was  ...  an  age.  .  .  . 
And  now  .  .  .  that  we  are  together  again  .  .  . 
vlan!  .  .  .  there  is  Eternity  .  .  .  knocking  at  my 
door!  ...  I  have  been  ...  a  reckless  spend 
thrift  ...  of  the  years.  .  .  ." 

"Gerard,  listen  ...  I  will  not  let  It  in  ...  I 
will  stand  sentry  at  the  door  .  .  .  and  beg  so  hard 
for  time.  .  .  ." 

"I  had  ...  all  the  time  .  .  .  there  was  .  .  . 
and  let  it  slip.  .  .  .  Well  ...  the  everlasting  minute 
of  Eternity  .  .  .  will  soon  be  mine  .  .  .  and  I  will 
pay  you  back  .  .  .  when  you  join  me.  ...  Cour- 
age!"  .  .  . 

My  mother  bent  her  head. 

"Gerard,"  she  whispered,  "you  will  not  have  long 
to  wait.  .  .  .  Are  you  in  great  pain?"  .  .  . 

303 


304  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"Not  in  greater  .  .  .  than  I  can  bear  .  .  .  nor 
in  more  than  I  ...  deserved.  ...  A  good  reaper, 
that  kinsman  of  mine,  Andre  du  Quesnoy!"  .  .  . 

My  mother  cried  out  at  the  jest.  The  marquis 
opened  his  eyes,  and  smiled  into  her  face. 

"You  must  not  bear  him  any  grudge,"  he  mur 
mured  :  "his,  you  see,  is  a  practised  hand  with  the 
sickle." 

My  mother  wept  .  .  .  silently.  Not  a  word  broke 
the  stillness.  Then,  on  a  sudden,  the  marquis  opened 
his  eyes,  and  struggled  to  sit  up,  crying  :— 

"Light  a  lamp,  Claire!  .  .  .  The  room  is  so 
dark!"  .  .  . 

His  voice  was  a  command.  And  in  the  broad 
daylight  she  lit  the  lamp. 

"Hold  up  the  portrait!"  she  breathlessly  cried  to 
me.  Then  to  her  husband  : — 

"The  lamp  burns  brightly  now,  dear — it  was  very 
neglectful  of  me  to  forget  to  light  it." 

I  held  the  portrait  high. 

The  marquis  raised  his  hand,  saluted,  then  sank 
back  to  the  pillow,  murmuring : — 

"My  second  debt!  Paid  in  the  nick  of  time!  .  .  . 
Remember,  the  boy  must  bear  my  name,  he  was  born 
in  ...  stay,  there  is  yet  another  debt  ...  I  must 
not  forget  the  bon  Dieu  ...  to  Him  I  have  so  mucli 
to  say  .  .  .  and  He  in  me,  so  much  to  pardon. 
Quick!  the  Blessed  Sacrament!" 

"Monsignor  is  waiting  downstairs,"  said  my 
mother.  "Jean,  send  him  to  me !" 

I  obeyed,  then  went  to  Jacqueline.  And  a  whole 
hour  wore  away,  we  had  so  much  to  tell  each  other, 
and  so  much  to  plan  for  the  future.  Her  fear  of 


THE  REAPER  305 

Jacques  was  still  unabated.  Her  disappointment 
that  he  had  escaped  from  being  immediately  un 
masked  by  her  device  exceeded  my  own. 

"I  really  do  not  know  how  I  can  possibly  wait 
until  to-night!"  she  cried.  "And  I  am  so  terrified 
of  the  power  he  has  over  me.  ..." 

"Then  stay  here,  Jacqueline,  until  I  have  set  the 
clock  to  work." 

"Oh,  no,  Jean.  I  should  only  be  in  the  way — I 
must  go  home  as  soon  as  the  marquise  sends  for 
me." 

And  on  her  words,  Monsignor  entered  the  salon. 

My  eyes  questioned  him. 

"Monsieur  the  marquis  is  no  more,"  he  an 
nounced,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

We  stood  before  him,  tongue-tied  and  dry-eyed. 

I  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Does  my  mother  want  me?"  I  asked. 

"Madame  la  marquise  wishes  to  be  left  alone 
with  the  dead,"  he  replied.  "She  will  send  for  you 
both,  by-and-by.  Adieu,  monsieur — adieu,  made 
moiselle." 

I  accompanied  him  to  the  front  door,  then  re 
turned  to  Jacqueline. 


Jacqueline  went  home  after  midday  dejeuner. 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  my 
mother  sent  for  me.  She  was  greatly  distressed 
when  I  told  her  I  must  at  once  go  back  to  Hawthorn 
Ferry  Farm.  Que  voulez-vouzl  one  cannot  adopt 
a  father  overnight.  Of  all  the  men  I  know,  it  is 
Andre  I  love  the  most. 


CHAPTER   VI 

CAUGHT  BETWEEN  THE  CHIMES 

ON  leaving  the  Chateau  du  Quesnoy,  I  rode 
straight  down  into  the  valley,  over  bush  and  brier, 
over  hedge  and  ditch,  my  horse  now  sliding  down  the 
deep  descents,  and  now  taking  them  at  a  bound; 
then,  on  reaching  the  level  highroad,  I  swept  round 
to  the  left,  cleared  the  first  gate  into  the  fields,  and 
away  across  country  to  the  briny  meadowlands, 
where  neither  runnel  nor  deep  sea-pool  deterred  me 
from  taking  the  bee-line  to  the  Bac  de  1'Epine. 

One  of  our  farm  men  was  manuring  the  orchard, 
on  the  brink  of  the  pres-sales.  I  drew  rein. 

"Hola!  Dieudonne!"  1  shouted:  "Where  is 
Monsieur  Andre?" 

He  bounded  towards  me. 

"Monsieur  Andre  is  with  his  brother.  .  .  .  Mon 
sieur  Jacques  went  out  fishing  in  the  early  morning," 
he  added. 

"What!  Aren't  your  masters  back  yet?"  I  cried, 
my  heart  in  my  mouth. 

He  stood  on  the  embankment  and  wiped  his 
streaming  face. 

"Dame!  oui!  it  was  in  the  river  he  was  fishing, 
Monsieur  Jacques." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  once!" 
306 


CAUGHT  BETWEEN  THE  CHIMES   307 

Straight  as  the  crow  flies,  I  made  for  the  river. 
Would  old  Julie  Champion,  my  maman's  favourite 
sister,  be  at  her  cottage  door,  or,  as  usual,  be  giving 
a  neighbour  a  helping  hand?  She  must  have  got 
back  by  now  from  taking  the  salmon  to  Littremont 
railway  station,  and  would  be  only  too  glad  to  offer 
me  a  snack.  Had  she  heard  the  news  of  the  Marquis 
du  Quesnoy's  death,  and  that  her  sister's  adopted 
child  now  reigned  in  his  stead?  And  if  so,  would 
she  hail  me  from  across  the  river,  in  that  clarion 
voice  of  hers,  and  say: — "Te  voila  bien  en  nage, 
mon  petit  marquis!"  Or  would  she  give  a  cry  of 
horror,  and  wade  up  to  her  neck  to  my  rescue  ?  .  .  . 

So  wondering,  I  reached  the  river,  in  the  very  eye 
of  her  little  thatched  cottage,  on  its  wooded  dike. 
She  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  My  horse  plunged 
into  the  icy  water,  lost  its  footing  in  a  pool,  then 
struck  out  for  the  shore.  .  .  . 

We  were  half-way  across  when,  from  the  neigh 
bouring  chaumiere,  out  strode  Julie,  with  a  baby  in 
her  arms.  Her  fine  Roman  face  broke  into  a  broad 
smile  of  amusement  as  she  caught  sight  of  me. 

"Bon  Jesus!"  she  roared:  "who  would  believe  I 
had  carried  him  in  my  arms !  .  .  .  But  you're  a  deal 
too  wet  now  to  be  hugged  to  my  breast — hush! 
hush !  you  little  demon !  — And  you're  an  hour  and 
a  half  too  late,  my  lad,  to  take  your  old  aunt  by 
surprise." 

"Take  you  by  surprise,  Julie?  Why,  what  about?" 

She  flung  out  her  arms  on  a  shrug. 

"Get  along  with  you!"  she  shouted. 

"We  are  doing  our  best,  ma  tante." 

"He  always  would  have  the  last  word,  from  the 


308  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

time  he  was  scarcely  bigger  than  thou,  my  pet,"  she 
cried  in  the  baby's  ear. 
I  trotted  up  the  path. 

"TV  voila  marquis  a  present !  Dame!  ca  change!" 
And  she  stood  looking  at  me,  a  quizzical  affection,  in 
her  ayes. 

"A  change  for  the  worse,  Julie." 
"Dame!" 

"I'm  glad  you  agree  with  me  for  once.  Here, 
take  that  screaming  baby  back  to  its  mother,  and 
then  come  and  give  me  something  to  eat  and  drink, 
before  I  go  home." 

"Which  home — the  old  or  the  new?" 
"I  have  only  one — the  old." 
She  ran  back  into  her  neighbour's  cottage,  then 
returned  to  me  without  the  baby,  and  relieved  me 
of  my  mare. 

I  left  her  grooming  the  dripping  horse,  then  went 
into  the  house.  Presently,  in  she  came,  and  gave  me 
a  steaming  bowl  of  soupe  a  la  graisse.  It  was  dark 
as  pitch  when  I  again  set  out  for  Hawthorn  Ferry 
Farm.  When  I  had  stabled  the  mare,  I  ran  round 
to  the  front  drive,  in  full  view  of  the  house. 

Look!  the  outside  shutters  are  pricked  eagerly 
forward  towards  the  shining  windows  of  the  salle 
basse  like  two  white  ears  listening  secretly,  to  what 
is  being  said  within!  Every  now  and  then,  stirred 
by  a  gust  of  wind,  they  strain  a  little  nearer  to  the 
window,  as  if  to  catch  some  murmured  confidence 
before  it  freezes  on  the  lips. 

Angry  voices  came  to  me  as  I  approached:  the 
deep  bass  of  Jacques,  thundering  in  protestation; 
Andre's  baritone,  vibrant,  intense,  accusing.  And 


CAUGHT  BETWEEN  THE  CHIMES   309 

angry  words  grew  audible  as  I  entered  the 
kitchen. 

"How  can  I  unfold  the  story  of  that  night,  if  you 
will  keep  on  interrupting  me  like  this!  Good  God, 
Andre,  will  you  hear  me  out?" 

"I  gave  you  fair  warning — I  appealed  to  your 
sense  of  the  family  honour — I  urged  you  to  open 
speech — yet  you  begin  your  defence  with  a  clumsy 
falsehood.  Retract  the  trumpery  subterfuge  and 
I  will  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say.  Stick 
out  another  moment,  and  I  shall  tell  the  story 
myself— 

" — Will  you,  by  God!  You  would  trump  up  a 
charge  against  me,  would  you?  Not  if  I  know  it!" 
And  on  the  words  there  followed  an  ominous  click. 

"Sit  down,  Jacques.  Forewarned — FOREARMED  !" 
And  again  I  heard  the  click  that  gave  point  to  the 
last  wrord. 

"Two  can  play  at  that  game !"  roared  Jacques. 

"Nonsense,  put  your  revolver  back,  as  I  put  mine 
.  .  .  good.  Now  I  am  ready  to  listen  to  you." 

Quiet  as  a  mouse,  I  stole  to  my  workshop,  in 
order  to  fetch  my  tools.  It  would  have  seemed  a 
sacrilege  to  have  removed  the  clock  from  its  death- 
chamber.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  cave,  and  gently 
raised  the  cloth.  The  hands  pointed  to  12.14. 
Maman  had  died  at  midday,  when  the  sun  was  at 
its  zenith  .  .  . 

When  maman  drew  her  last  breath  I  had  shed  a 
flood  of  tears.  A  storm  of  anger  shook  me  now. 

"This  was  destruction,  most  unnatural  and  foul!" 
I  cried,  then  rushed  to  bar  the  door  against  intrusion 
from  the  salle  basse.  After  which  I  unfastened 


310  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

the  hanging  weights,  and  hooked  them  to  a  nail  in 
the  rafter;  and  then,  slipping  back  the  side  panels, 
I  examined  the  simple  works.  They  were  coated  and 
clogged  with  dust.  Reaching  out  for  the  bellows, 
I  blew  and  blew  until  the  rust  shone  out  red. 

"A  drink  of  oil  will  cheer  you  up,"  I  muttered. 
.  .  .  "And  in  another  three  hours  you  will  strike 
again.  ...  At  midnight — not  before.  ..." 

Not  a  murmur  reached  me  from  the  salle  basss. 
Surely  they  had  not  gone  to  bed?  No,  no,  twenty 
metres  of  space  and  two  stout  walls  of  granite  were 
enough  to  drown  their  voices.  Patience !  Upon  the 
stroke  of  twelve  both  doors  of  oak  should  be  opened, 
and  I  would  detect  the  villain  between  the  chimes. 
Yes,  indeed,  Jacqueline,  it  was  a  happy  inspiration 
of  yours !  .  .  . 

With  infinite  care  and  patience  I  rubbed  in  the 
oil,  and  when  at  last  the  works  were  bright  as  steel 
could  be  I  set  to  work  on  the  giant  case.  To  restore 
it  to  its  former  strength  and  beauty  in  the  time  at 
my  disposal  was  not  to  be  attempted :  it  would  have 
taken  all  my  love  and  skill  to  do  it  in  a  week;  but 
the  body  should  be  made  strong  enough  to  hold  the 
spirit,  within  the  few  hours  that  remained  to  me. 
It  made  my  heart  ache  to  see  the  splintered  sides 
and  dislocated  joints.  What  frenzy  of  madness  had 
possessed  the  man  thus  to  have  wreaked  his  ven 
geance  on  his  mother's  heirloom?  .  .  . 

With  pegs  of  oak  I  closed  the  gaping  wounds; 
wimble  and  hammer  came  alternately  into  play.  My 
hand,  thank  God,  had  not  lost  its  cunning;  indeed, 
I  had  to  check  the  eager  fingers  that  itched  to 
perfect  every  blemish.  "To-night,  the  deadly  injur- 


CAUGHT  BETWEEN  THE  CHIMES   311 

ies;  to-morrow,  the  spiteful  scratches  and  disfigure 
ments,"  I  told  myself. 

How  close  it  grew  in  the  stuffy  cave!  The  sweat 
streaming  down  my  face,  I  flung  open  the  outer 
door.  From  the  byre  across  the  yard  came  the 
clank  of  chains,  the  rustling  of  straw.  .  .  .  Ah,  yes ! 
there  was  the  white  cow  too !  a  second  act  pointing, 
as  the  first,  to  ungovernable  passion,  or  to  insensate 
revenge.  .  .  .  Suicide?  from  what  ills  at  home  had 
she  fled  to  a  refuge  so  uncertain?  No,  no,  she  had 
chosen  another  way  out :  the  Marquis  du  Quesnoy 
had  sent  for  her,  and  was  sure  that  she  would 
not  deny  him.  Had  Jacques,  then,  intercepted  her 
on  her  flight  ?  .  .  . 

Probably.  And  if  she  had  struck  the  first  blow, 
then  the  provocation  had  come  from  her.  And  how 
had  he  retaliated?  .  .  .  How?  .  .  .  Yes,  how  had 
he  avenged  her  infidelity?  .  .  . 

I  took  the  twisted  pendulum  in  my  hands,  as  I 
asked  myself  the  question,  my  mind  swinging  from 
one  extreme  of  opinion  to  another,  and  began  to 
straighten  it  out  in  the  screw-press. 

Action  and  reaction,  I  argued,  are  equal  and 
opposite.  Now,  two  deeds  of  equal  violence  are 
within  sight  or  sound  of  me  here.  As  I  am  lament 
ing  the  injuries  done  to  this  clock,  so  the  cows  in 
the  shippen  yonder  would  appear  to  be  mourning 
their  old  companion.  Neither  deed  of  desperation 
could  have  been  reactionary,  or  I  should  now  be 
rejoicing  over  a  reconciliation,  and  not  balancing  the 
odds  between  mystery  and  murder  .  .  .  murder! 

The  word  slipped  from  my  lips.  With  a  sudden 
wrench  I  unscrewed  the  vice,  then  held  the  pendulum 


312  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

suspended.     It  hung  straight  as  a  plummet.     My 
work  was  all  but  completed. 

On  Andre's  evidence,  the  wedding-ring  could  not 
have  been  lost  on  the  night  of  the  snowstorm,  nor, 
indeed,  could  the  tortoiseshell  hairpin.  .  .  .  What 
was  it  that  Jacqueline  had  said  in  the  arbour  last 
night?  .  .  .  "When  he  sees  you,  he  will  say:  'So 
Jacqueline  Lolif  has  been  telling  you  of  that  little 
weakness  of  mine,  in  burying  a 

.  .  .  What  was   it   she  would  have  said?   .   . 
Something  that  had  been  buried? — with  the  white 
cow  perhaps?  .  .  .     Why  had  Jacques  butchered  the 
cow,  torn  its  entrails  out,  leaving  a  hollow  carcass' 

I  raised  the  clock  in  my  arms,  and  stood  it  on  the 
floor;  after  which  I  deadened  the  gong  with  flannel, 
and,  replacing  the  hanging  weights,  wound  them 
up  as  far  as  they  would  go,  and  set  the  pendulum 
in  motion. 

Tick-tack,  tick-tack,  tick!  .  .  . 

Yes;   the  works  were  sound  enough. 

Ding!  ...  A  minute  passed;  then  again:  Dong! 

The  chimes,  too,  were  ready  for  action.  .  .  . 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  Ten  minutes  to  twelve. 
It  was  the  work  of  an  instant  to  stop  the  clock, 
unwrap  the  gong,  then  set  the  hands  to  within  a  few 
strokes  of  midnight.  .  .  . 

When  every  reparation  was  completed,  I  unbarred 
the  door,  and  stepped  into  the  kitchen.  Andre's 
voice,  low  and  earnest,  murmured  continuously 
from  within  the  salle  basse.  It  sounded  eloquent  of 
pleading  and  persuasion.  .  .  .  How  was  I  to  get 
the  door  open?  .  .  . 

Of  course,  my  diary!     I  would  make  that  my 


CAUGHT  BETWEEN  THE  CHIMES   313 

excuse,  run  upstairs  through  the  curtained  stairway, 
fetch  the  manuscript  from  my  room,  hand  it  over 
to  Andre,  and  then  return  to  the  cave,  leaving  both 
doors  open. 

With  eager  impetuosity,  I  rushed  across  the 
kitchen,  and  knocked  on  the  inner  door — vlan! 

There  followed  an  inarticulate  protest  from 
Jacques.  It  seemed  to  say :  "On  rientre  pas  id!" 
And  then,  a  second  or  two  later,  a  bell  rattled  on 
the  floor,  moaning  as  if  in  pain.  I  recognised  its 
timbre.  Tiens!  the  leper's  bell!  .  .  . 

I  threw  open  the  door  without  more  ado.  Andre 
was  replacing  the  bell  on  its  bracket. 

"Gently,  brother,  gently,  pray!"  I  murmured,  on 
entering.  "Sorry  to  have  disturbed  you  both.  I 
am  going  upstairs  for  my  diary."  And  up  I  ran, 
and  came  back  with  the  MS.  "Would  you  like  to 
peruse  the  sequel?"  I  asked  Andre. 

He  forced  a  smile.  "Would  I  not!"  he  replied, 
then  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  loose  sheets. 

Jacques  had  not  once  raised  his  eyes.  He  sat 
in  his  chair,  silent  as  an  image,  his  head  sunk  on 
his  breast.  As  I  turned  to  leave  the  room,  he  gave 
an  involuntary  gasp;  then,  with  an  effort,  pulled 
himself  together,  and  sat  up  straight  and  rigid. 

"Are  you  going  to  bed,  Jean?"  said  Andre. 

"Not  for  a  minute  or  two,"  I  replied,  and  re 
turned  to  the  cave,  shutting  their  door  behind 
me. 

On  second  thoughts,  I  had  decided  to  stand  the 
clock  in  the  kitchen  between  closed  doors — its  tones 
were  so  resonant,  they  could  not  fail  to  reach  the 
culprit's  hearing. 


314  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

That  done,  I  lightly  touched  the  pendulum  .  .  . 

Tick-tack!    tick-tack!    tick!  .  .  . 

.  .  .  ONE!     Two!     THREE!    FOUR!  .  .  . 

"_Afow  de  Dieu!  .  .  .  what's  that?"  The  cry 
had  burst  from  Jacques. 

.  .  .  EIGHT!  .  .  .  NINE!  .  .  .  TEN!  .  .  . 
ELEVEN!  .  .  . 

....  TWELVE! 

A  chair  crashed  to  the  floor. 

It  thrilled  through  the  hush  within  the  salle  basse, 
like  a  knell :  a  cry  of  agony  burst  from  Jacques ; 
then  the  clock  choked  down  a  sob,  and  ticked 
placidly  on. 

And  then,  alternating  with  the  swing  of  the  pen 
dulum,  a  silence  of  life  and  death.  .  .  . 

One  minute  and  five  seconds  ticked  themselves 
out  in  my  heart.  Once  more  the  clock  cleared  its 
voice.  A  window  was  flung  open.  I  gave  an  invol 
untary  exclamation. 

DING!  .  .  .  DONG! 

"Nom  de  Dieu!  .  .  .  dead!  .  .  .  Nom  de  Dieu, 
dead !  .  .  .  dead ! !  .  .  .  dead ! ! !  —  air !  —  God ! 
Why  were  my  hands  so  strong!  Reveille-toil  Jean- 
nette!  Bon  Jesus,  give  her  life!  life!!  .  .  .  Why 
are  her  hands  so  cold !  .  .  .  Jeannette  ? — Jeannette  ? — 
Jeannette?"  .  .  .  And  the  cry  was  repeated  again 
and  again,  first  from  the  salle  basse,  then  from  the 
garden,  then  from  the  shippen.  .  .  . 

What  was  there,  in  the  all-obliterated  voice, 
which  urged  me  to  tear  off  the  hanging  weights, 
snatch  up  the  clock,  and  lay  it  out  on  the  trestles 
in  the  cave,  and  then,  falling  on  my  knees  beside  it, 
bury  my  face  in  an  agony  of  self-reproach? 


CAUGHT  BETWEEN  THE  CHIMES  315 

"My  God!  my  God!"  I  cried:  "who  am  I,  clay 
pot  that  I  am,  to  play  the  part  of  the  Potter?"  And 
I  locked  myself  in  with  my  remorse,  and  could  not 
forgive  myself. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DEATH-BOAT 

How  cold  it  grew  in  the  clammy  cellar !  Picking 
up  a  bundle  of  faggots,  I  lit  the  fire  in  the  kitchen, 
then  sat  down  to  warm  myself  at  the  crackling 
faggots.  Was  Jacques  still  out  there,  in  the  storm 
and  spindrift — a  fugitive  from  his  own  fireside?  .  .  . 
Strange,  but  my  thoughts  would  go  out  to  him  in 
brotherly  sympathy,  though  his  was  undoubtedly 
the  hand  that  had  slain  Jeannette.  .  .  .  Who  was 
I  that  I  should  pass  sentence  upon  either  of  them. 
Were  they  not  both  the  playthings  of  as  grim  a  Fate 
as  ever  prompted  a  man  to  violence  ?  .  .  . 

The  hours  wore  themselves  out  in  wind  and  rain. 
Then,  at  last,  out  of  the  night  it  had  left  behind, 
there  came  shivering  up  into  the  darkness  a  fugitive 
beam  of  light:  and  the  shuddering  foredawn  stole 
in  upon  me.  .  .  . 

A  little  later,  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  I  called. 

"It  is  I— Andre." 

I  wrenched  myself  to  my  feet. 

"Why  knock,  Andre?" 

"I  thought  you  might  well  wish  to  be  alone,"  he 
said,  on  entering. 

I  stood  before  him  shamefaced.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder. 

316 


THE  DEATH-BOAT  317 

"Your  devotion  to  the  memory  of  my  mother 
has  touched  me  deeply,  Jean.  I  would  commit  the 
family  honour  to  your  loyalty.  .  .  .  Are  you  not 
going  to  have  a  few  hours  of  sleep?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Is  it  wise  to  challenge  a  breakdown?" 

"The  night  before  last  I  had  no  alternative;  and 
last  night  no  desire  to  sleep." 

"More  often  than  not,  Jean,  our  desires  are  our 
worst  counsellors.  ...  In  your  place,  I  should  seek 
the  consolation  of  sleep." 

I  nerved  myself  to  ask  him  a  question. 

"Andre?"  I  faltered. 

"Well,  Jean?" 

"Is — Jacques — in  bed?" 

He  walked  to  the  door;   then,  turning  round: — 

"No,"  he  answered,  solemnly :  "le  comte  Jacques 
du  Quesnoy  is  waiting  outside  in  the  dawn  for  the 
broad  light  of  day.  .  .  .  And  now,  mon  frere  de  lait 
et  mon  frere  de  ccxur,  try  to  rest." 

And  so  he  left  me  to  my  meditations  —  and, 
grand  Dieu,  what  meditations  were  mine!  .  .  . 


It  was  not  long  before  they  drove  me  out  of  the 
house  to  look  for  Jacques.  He  was  not  in  the  boat- 
house,  nor  yet  was  the  Frwole.  "He  must  have 
slipped  away  in  her  before  the  tide  came  in,"  I 
murmured  to  myself.  And  with  this  thought  came 
another — if  any  one  could  help  me,  it  would  be 
Louis  Bataille.  .  .  . 

I  found  him  mending  his  net,  stretched  between 


318  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

two  stakes  in  the  embankment.  I  meant  to  take 
the  wind  out  of  his  sails  from  the  start. 

"Well  rowed,  Bataille!"  I  cried  at  a  venture. 
"The  sea  must  have  given  you  a  pretty  tossing 
beyond  the  Pig's  Snout!" 

One  sidelong  glance,  swift  and  suspicious,  then 
he  went  on  with  his  netting. 

"Were  you  on  the  Pig's  Snout?"  he  hazarded, 
feeling  his  way,  as  it  were,  in  the  dark. 

"No,  I  didn't  get  quite  so  far,"  I  replied,  implying 
that  someone  else  did. 

He  swung  round. 

"What  else  could  I  do,"  he  casually  inquired,  "but 
follow  the  Frivole  in  the  Rapide?" 

"What  else  indeed!"  I  concurred. 

"And  once  alongside,  what  should  I  do  but  jump 
aboard.  Not  that  I  was  alongside  her  either  —  I 
never  made  such  a  jump!  All  the  saints  in  heaven 
couldn't  have  kept  me  from  Monsieur  Jacques ! 
He  knew  that  as  well  as  I  did,  and  he  quickly 
changed  his  tune,  for  he'd  been  shouting  to  me  to 
go  home  about  my  business.  But  when  he  saw  me 
lying  at  his  feet,  with  three  yards  of  sea-room 
between  the  boats  —  dame!  he  had  clasped  his 
strong  arms  about  me,  and  it  would  have  taken  a 
dozen  men  stronger  than  you  even  to  have  torn  us 
apart — it  is  not  often  a  Norman  wears  his  heart 
upon  his  sleeve,  even  at  a  funeral;  but  I  must 
confess  I  had  to  swallow  lump  after  lump  before 
I  could  say  a  word.  Then  I  asked  him  if  he  was 
coming  home  along  with  me.  Not  likely!  Catch 
him  returning  before  the  evening  tide!  And  catch 
me  going  back  alone,  without  a  fight  for  it!  Why 


THE  DEATH-BOAT  319 

not  go  a-fishing  in  home  waters?  I  asked,  and  the 
answer  was,  he  had  other  fish  to  fry  in  the  deep. 
I  lost  my  temper  in  the  end,  and  gave  him  a  piece 
of  my  mind." — He  lowered  his  voice,  and  drew  close 
to  my  elbow. — "Yes,  I  told  him  straight  what  I 
thought  of  HER — cette  sacree ' 

"What  next,  what  next?"  I  quickly  interrupted. 

"Well,  the  wind  turned  shortly  after  that,  and 
Monsieur  Jacques  put  up  his  sail  and  was  scudding 
out  to  sea  before  the  south-easterly  gale,  before 
I  had  half-finished  what  I  had  it  in  my  head  to  say 
against  her — fortunately  for  me,  I  had  the  Rapide 
in  tow,  otherwise  I  should  not  be  here  to  tell  the 
story." 

"He'll  come  back  on  the  tide,  Bataille,  never 
fear — I  feel  certain  of  it.  .  .  ." 

"Pour  me,"  he  slowly  answered :  "I'd  feel  easier 
in  my  mind  if  he'd  taken  the  Rapide :  she'd  weather 
the  heaviest  storm  that  ever  blew." 

"Did  you  give  him  the  chance?" 

"Darnel"  he  exclaimed,  as  who  should  say,  What 
a  question!  .  .  .  "And  if  our  M'sieur  Jacques  didn't 
say  his  boat  was  worth  two  of  mine!  Pensez 
done!  .  .  ." 

"Well,  he's  on  board  her  this  time.  .  .  ." 

"A  fine  sailor,  one  of  the  best ;  I'd  sail  under  him 
in  all  weathers,  and  in  every  sea,  but  not  in  the 
Friz'ole.  Not  likely !  .  .  .  'Vous  portez  la  mart  a  bord 
ce  satane  baquet  de  malheur,  pensez  a  vousl'  I  cried 
to  him.  Ay,  M'sieur  Jean,  and  have  a  care  he  must, 
on  board  that  cursed  tub,  for  her  skipper's  Death." 

"Not  with  Jacques  in  command,"  I  involuntarily 
exclaimed. 


320  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

"I'd  keep  my  weather-eye  open,  for  all  that.  .  .  . 
En  fin!  ...  I  did  all  I  could,  as  a  married  man — 
tenez,  wife  and  child,  what  are  they  but  so  many 
hostages  to  fortune?  I  had  to  return  to  them,  and 
to  the  nets  that  keep  their  bodies  and  souls  together 
— quoif" 

"Forcement"  I  replied. 

"So  here  I  am  mending  my  net  as  if  nothing  was 
amiss." 

"Nor  is  there,"  I  persisted:  "I  don't  believe  in 
meeting  trouble  half-way." 

"Ni  me  non  p'us;  but  one  can't  turn  one's  back 
upon  it  when  it's  there." 

"I  feel  I  have  faced  enough  for  one  week, 
Bataille." 

"Dame!   oui!"  he  cried. 

"Thank  you,  for  all  you  have  done  for  us,  and 
au  revoir,  mon  ami." 


The  morning  tide  came  in,  flooding  the  wilderness 
of  sea-sand  with  its  storm-driven  seas ;  it  went  out, 
serene  and  placid,  in  the  bright  sunshine,  leaving 
the  fishing  nets  ready  to  burst,  with  their  shoals 
of  salmon;  but  of  Jacques  not  a  sign  to  cheer  my 
sinking  courage.  .  .  .  The  light  faded  away,  and  the 
evening  tide  was  heralded  by  the  distant  roar  of 
the  tidal  wave  as  it  raced  by  the  perilous  Mont. 
Every  minute  seemed  an  hour  to  Andre  and  me, 
on  the  lookout  with  our  companion,  Louis  Bataille, 
upon  the  dike  in  front  of  his  cottage.  In  our  sus 
pense,  we  fell  to  talking  of  the  record  draught  of 


THE  DEATH-BOAT  321 

salmon  of  the  morning,  as  much  to  hide  our  fears 
from  one  another  as  from  ourselves.  The  tidal 
wave  hove  in  sight.  It  swept  past  up  with  a  roar, 
followed  slowly  by  the  sea.  And  still  the  waves 
brought  no  token  of  our  wanderer's  return  from  the 
sullen  bay.  .  .  . 

I  changed  the  subject  of  our  talk,  suddenly. 

"Bataille,"  said  I,  with  a  confidence  in  the  man 
that  was  never  to  be  broken,  "tell  me  quite  frankly : 
are  the  gendarmes  likely  to  give  us  trouble?  The 
family  could  ill-afford  a  splash  of  mud  upon  its 
name.  You  know  that  as  well  as  we  do." 

He  shot  me  a  glance,  so  keen  it  seemed  to  pierce. 
He  understood.  He  knew. 

"We  are  as  one  man  down  here,  monsieur,"  he 
replied,  speaking  deliberately:  "and  Jacques  du 
Quesnoy — dame! — we  stand  or  fall  with  him,  and 
'tis  not  often  a  Norman  fisherman  falls."  Then  he 
added,  with  a  grim  tenacity  in  his  voice :  "Madame 
Jacques  lost  her  way  on  these  sands  the  night  of  the 
snowstorm.  There  are  those  who  are  ready  to 
swear  that  they  heard  her  despairing  shriek  as  the 
quicksands  sucked  her  under.  Dame!  oui!  And 
it  is  I,  Bataille,  who  says  it."  He  turned  to  Andre, 
as  though  to  a  kindred  spirit :  "Monsieur  compre 
hends,  is  it  not?"  .  .  . 

Fisher  and  nobleman  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  unflinchingly:  one  with  another,  they  were 
of  one  mind.  As  for  me,  I  gripped  Bataille  by  the 
hand,  then  quickly  looked  away,  for  I  could  not  meet 
the  gaze  he  turned  so  steadily  upon  me.  What 
inscrutable  eyes  the  Normans  have  —  at  will.  All 
knowledge  of  the  events  of  yesterday  —  nay,  of 


322  THE  LEPER'S  BELL 

but  a  moment  ago,  can  be  wiped  out  as  completely 
as  can  the  letters  from  a  slate.  Dame!  .  .  . 

And  then  the  sea  came  pouring  past  in  floods, 
spreading  outward  like  an  opening  fan,  and  beating 
up  against  the  granite  steps  leading  from  the  dike- 
way  to  the  greves,  as  if  it  meant  to  cover  the  whole 
earth.  .  .  .  Higher  and  higher  it  rose,  until  at  last 
it  washed  our  feet.  .  .  . 

And  at  that  moment,  just  when  we  least  expected 
our  hopes  to  be  denied,  we  descried  out  there,  giddilv 
riding  the  streak  of  clotted  foam  which,  like  some 
stealthy  serpent,  wound  its  way  atop  of  the  river, 
from  the  churn  of  the  cruel  sea  (bon  Jesus!  the 
great  white  swan  with  its  craning  neck!)  a  boat  all 
yellow  and  red  whispering  of  death  in  the  deep.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  boat  danced  nearer,  free  and  frolic 
some.  .  .  . 

...  I  could  not  utter  a  sound,  as  I  watched  her 
approach. 

.  .  .  Louis  Bataille  shielded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  as  if  unable  to  believe  his  sight;  then  burst 
into  a  fit  of  ungovernable  fury. 

.  .  .  "Sacre  bleu  du  del!"  he  roared  out,  and 
shook  his  fist  at  the  sky.  "Sacre  cote  d'emeraude!" 
he  thundered,  with  another  gesture  of  miserable 
anger.  "Death  and  damnation!  —  the  boat  is 
empty." 

.  .  .  And  as  the  Death-boat  came  dancing  by, 
Andre  bared  his  head. 

.  .  .  The  cottage  door  opened,  and  a  buxom 
woman  shrilled  out  from  the  doorway : — 

"A  qui  en  as-tu,  voyons?" 

It  was  Louis  Bataille's  wife. 


THE  DEATH-BOAT  323 

.  .  .  Bataille  swung  round,  full  of  ire. 

.  .  .  "Veux-tu  bien  alter  te  faire  fiche!"  he 
shouted  back.  And  his  wife  retreated.  "Sacre 
bateau  de  malheur,  va!"  he  continued,  as  the  door 
closed.  "If  it  isn't  enough  to  make  a  man  lose  all 
taste  for  bread !"  And  wringing  Andre  and  me  by 
the  hand,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  river.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  And  from  its  crumbling  banks  there  sound 
ed  up  to  us  the  sullen  thud  of  the  ever- falling  sea- 
clay,  bringing  with  it  thoughts  of  severance  and 
dissolution. 


Too  Old  for  Dolls 

By 
Anthony  M.  Ludovici 

The  story  of  a  "flapper"  too  old 
for  dolls,  scarcely  old  enough  for 
anything  else,  but  capable  of  en 
raging  her  older  sister  and  even 
her  mother  by  the  ease  with  which 
she  secures  the  admiration  of  their 
male  friends. 

"From  a  Mohawk,  from  a  sexless 
savage  with  tangled  hah*  and 
blotchy  features,  she  had,  by  a 
stroke  of  the  wand,  become  meta 
morphosed  into  a  remarkably  at 
tractive  young  woman."  And 
with  the  change  came  a  discon 
certing  knowledge  of  power. 

A  very  real,  very  tense,  and  very 
modern  novel. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Martha  and  Mary 

By 

Olive  Mary  Salter 


"There  is  humor  in  this  tale;  pungency 
and  wisdom  in  the  author's  survey  of  the 
eternal  man  and  woman  question." 

— North  American, 

"The  reader  follows  Owen  through  some 
passionate  chapters,  wherein  characteristics 
of  men  and  women  are  rather  faithfully  por 
trayed  under  stress  of  human  emotions.  As 
a  study  in  human  nature  and  individualism 
it  is  a  good  story.  Under  older  standards  it 
might  make  the  censor  mad." 

— Buffalo  Commercial, 

"This  is  an  astonishingly  frank  treatment 
of  a  problem  old  as  the  sea  and  as  shifting  in 
its  moods.  Olive  Salter  has  written  Martha 
and  Mary  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and 
with  a  relentless  decision  to  paint  the  per 
turbations,  passions,  and  sufferings  of  a  man 
when  faced  by  the  varying  devices  of  a 
homely,  dreamless  Martha  and  a  vagrant, 
fervently  imaginative  Mary,  with  an  illicit 
streak  in  her  blood.  There  are  bits  of  rare 
sex  insight  in  this  novel." 

— New  York  Tribune, 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


THE  STRANGENESS  OF 
NOEL  CARTON 

BY 

WILLIAM  CAINE 

"A  remarkably  entertaining  novel." 

"If  the  author   is    entirely   sane    he    deserves   any 
number  of  laudatory  notices." 

"  The  author  has  handled  a  surprising  situation  with 
great  finesse." 

"He  has  given  us  characters  which  are  drawn  with 
a  master  hand  and  vividly." 

"  The  book  is  original  and  exceedingly  well  done.     It 
is  a  joy  to  the  reviewer." 

New  York  Evening  Post 


"Mr.  Caine  has  written  a  startlingly  original  and 
compellingly  magnetic  story." 

"Will  stand  out  among  the  season's  fiction." 

"  It  will  leave  a  series  of  pictures  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader  that  will  endure  for  days." 

"It  is  a  remarkable  study  in  a  realm  of  practically 
uncharted  roads  in  fiction;  yet  it  has  the  force  of  an 
authentic  human  experience." 

New  York  Tribune 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  LONDON 


The  Journal  of 
Henry  Bulver 

Jl  Novel 
By  C.  Veheyne 

"Henry  Bulver  writes  a  journal,  in  which 
he  details  the  whole  story  of  his  bitter, 
passionate  life.  The  record  is  a  microscopic 
statement  in  bald,  incriminating,  and  excus 
ing  prose.  Miss  Veheyne  has  painted  the 
man  relentlessly,  with  a  vigor  in  veracity  and 
freedom  from  compromise  that  force  us  to 
believe  that  she  aimed  to  paint,  not  a  moral, 
but  a  lesson  for  hypocrites.  Her  satire 
flames  in  two  directions,  burning  into  the 
personality  of  Bulver  and  scorching  his  critics 
as  they  appear  and  speak  through  the  pages 
of  the  journal,  and  also  certain  lay-images 
of  sacrosanct  British  smugness." 

TV,  Y.  Tribune, 

Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


JUN  0  4 
DUE2WKbl-KUMui 


1993 
iLi\LttiVED 


NON-RENEWABLE 


JUL  1  1  19i!7 


t  uc-  f 


DUE2VHI»fROMDA 


E  RECEIVED 


A     000073182     8 


ilii  ;i:!t!i( 

;!$•!!!! 


iJiSlir 

!:!:;-,: 


msw 


w\wm 


11 


